


Magnificent Seven Request Collection

by CoffeeAndTin



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Additional Tags to Be Added, Character studies, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reader-Insert, Tumblr Prompt, one shots, the occasional shootout
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-02-28 13:29:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 37,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13272423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeAndTin/pseuds/CoffeeAndTin
Summary: A collection of requests from my tumblr page. Most recent: Seven mini fics about the Reader helping The Seven bathe after they've been incapacitated in some way.





	1. Exile on Main St.

**Author's Note:**

> Red Harvest acclimates to life after the battle of Rose Creek.

          Red Harvest rolled his shoulders as the late summer sun beat down on them. He filled his lungs and exhaled, enjoying the heat and solitude for a moment longer. The herbs he’d gathered would be a welcome addition to the doctor’s stores. Now he had only to deliver them, and that meant returning to town. Red spared a glance backward at the creek bed before approaching Jack. Lacking any activity, Faraday’s stallion had begun to make a nuisance of himself around the stable yard, and so Red was happy to intervene. Jack was stubborn, but once Red had negotiated the horse’s ticklish flanks, riding him without a saddle presented little difficulty.

           Red swung himself onto Jack’s back and set off toward Rose Creek at a slow trot. The stallion wasted no time in asking to be allowed to move faster, and Red reluctantly let him. Jack’s gait was shorter than his horse’s, but it was also smooth. The return trip was faster than Red would have preferred.

           Rose Creek bustled in the hours of the early evening. It had taken a few days for the town to collect itself after the battle but even in their weariness, the people of Rose Creek set to rebuilding the town at a feverish pace. Now, three weeks later, the work had become routine. The sounds of conversation and laughter slowly filtered back. Under the scent of fresh-cut lumber the smell of smoke remained even as the town endeavored to heal itself. Red settled Jack in the stable and gave the town’s doctor the contents of his satchel. Unencumbered, Red found his way back onto the street.

           Red cut down an alleyway on his way to the boarding house and a dog found its way into his path. He hadn’t realized before that moment how few were in Rose Creek. Red greeted the animal in his own tongue, and asked where it had come from. He crouched, and scratched under the dog’s chin, behind its ears, then down the sides of its neck. The lop-eared mutt gave no reply. It panted and looked up at Red with half closed eyes, and its tongue lolled in canine gratitude. Red gave it a final pat on the back before continuing on.

           Goodnight and Jack sat on the front porch of the boarding house. Aside from the cut on his face, Red Harvest had physically suffered little by comparison. The bandage around Jack’s left hand was the only immediate hint of the tracker’s injuries, but it was his other wounds that were keeping him from productivity. Jack boasted a ruddy, healthful complexion; and he watched the activity on the street with what Red Harvest recognized as longing. Or maybe Jack was intent on prayer. Either, Red thought, was perfectly likely.

          Goodnight sat with a dog-eared book closed in his lap, and a pall on his features that hinted at his former nearness to death. Bullet wounds and broken bones had slowed Goodnight, and Red had noticed a resultant moodiness in the usually jocund Cajun. Or, perhaps that temperament had always been there and Red had only taken note of it because he was becoming familiar. There was something unsettling in the thought, and Red shoved the notion aside as he climbed the stairs and greeted Jack and Goodnight with a nod.

           “Red,” Jack welcomed him.

           “Evenin’,” Goodnight said.

           Jack produced a flask of whiskey and offered it to Red, who accepted a drink before handing it to Goodnight. The liquor burned pleasantly and Red thought that it seemed like years instead of weeks ago that he would have taken joy in the infliction of Jack’s wounds. In his death.

The silence in which the three found themselves was comfortable enough, but Red didn’t care for the way Goodnight fidgeted with the book he held.

           “How’s Billy?” Red asked.

           Goodnight’s expression brightened at this.

           “Resting,” Goodnight said as he shifted to a more comfortable position. “At least, he should be.”

           Red’s mouth twitched at this. He’d had little occasion to spend time around Billy, but he hadn’t assumed his fellow outsider would take recovery lying down.

           “And Faraday?”

           “He’s spending more time among the living,” Goodnight said. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you paid him a visit.”

          Red nodded, and made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat. It struck him that he hadn’t been to see Faraday since he’d become lucid enough to carry on a conversation. Red knew there was no good reason  _not_  to see Faraday. The man had, after all, sacrificed himself and saved what remained of the population in Rose Creek; Red Harvest counted among them. The three fell silent again, and Red was about to take his leave when Goodnight spoke up.

           “You stickin’ around, then, Red?”

           Red saw the glance Jack and Goodnight shared, and he wondered how often his continued presence in Rose Creek had been the subject of speculation. He crossed his arms over his chest, and tried to think of an answer to the question that had lately been plaguing him.

           “Thought I’d stay until Sam gets back. Say goodbye.”

           Jack and Goodnight’s faces fell. Clearly, it hadn’t been the response the older men were expecting. Across the street, Red spied a small child pulling at a woman –his mother’s? –arm. The two looked familiar in the same, vague way all the residents of Rose Creek appeared to Red Harvest. He’d seen most, if not all of them, in passing; but he didn’t engage them. The child’s efforts redoubled and Red thought that he was not the only one with the urge to escape.

           “Oh…well,” Goodnight said. “Sam should be back any day now.”

           Jack nodded, and straightened his posture. He winced a little, but it did nothing to remove the dour expression that took up residence on his face.

           “Sam stayed here for a few days before he set out,” Jack observed.

           Red beat back the annoyance he felt at the heavy-handedness of Jack’s words; though, in his mind, Red admitted that he could not argue the point. He’d had a chance to say his farewells to Sam if he’d truly intended to leave.

_Fair enough,_  Red thought.

          Across the way, the child’s custodian gave his hand a small, admonitory squeeze, and the child ceased his pulling.

          Just over two weeks prior, Sam had left to serve a warrant. While Red hadn’t expected to be invited, he’d found that he’d had to quell a sense of unrest at the prospect of remaining in Rose Creek in Sam’s absence. He’d followed the man into battle, and The Seven had gained an unlikely victory. Red frowned. He could admit only to himself why he stayed. Surely, it was not some misplaced sense of filial obligation.  No, taking up arms with Sam and the rest of The Seven had been the first time in a long time that he’d felt a sense of direction.

           “I tell you what,” Goodnight interjected. “I almost feel sorry for the poor sonofabitch when Sam catches up to him.”

           Jack and Red nodded in tacit agreement. Red wondered, and not for the first time, if Sam had taken to the road so soon because he had been deprived of that final revenge against Bogue. Red supposed, by way of some funny little quirk of existence, that his slaying of Denali had facilitated Emma’s wrath, which had, in turn, prevented Sam’s vengeance…and his death.

           The child began tugging again. This time he pulled free, and began to make his way onto the street. The rapid approach of a horse-drawn cart spurred Red into action. Both Goodnight and Jack attempted to follow Red, but pain dutifully reminded them of their injuries. With sure, quick strides, Red reached the boy and easily scooped him up with one arm before bearing him away from any potential danger.

           “ _Oh!_ ” The woman said before bustling over, her expression stricken.

           Red stood stock-still. It was a mistake. He shouldn’t have gone anywhere near the child. Even though he’d helped save them, he would now face the woman’s ire (and likely that of the rest of the town’s) because they thought he was a savage and that he was dangerous, and…

           “ _Thomas!_  What have I told you about running away from me?!” The woman cut her tirade short, relief and a bright smile replacing her fear and agitation. “Thank you so much! Mister…Harvest?”

           The woman paused as she realized that Red Harvest’s name was, perhaps, not so easily paired with proper forms of address in the English language. Something that looked like embarrassment flitted over her face before she continued smiling. Her features were both soft and handsome. While the gray in her red-gold hair, and wrinkles at the corners of her mouth and eyes hinted at her age, the spray of freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose lent her the appearance of a more youthful woman.

           “’Red Harvest,’ is fine,” he said, allowing himself a sigh of relief. “Or, just ‘Red.’”

           “I’m Stella Hawkins; my husband Ned’s the butcher. And this is Thomas, my nephew.” Red recalled bringing a deer to her husband and realized that was how he recognized her. “Good to finally meet you, Red Harvest.”

           Red nodded, and hoisted Thomas higher in his grip. The boy had the same dark eyes as is aunt, and they regarded Red Harvest with honest, open curiosity. Thomas smiled at Red Harvest, and Red found himself unreservedly smiling back.      

           He handed Thomas back to Stella, and while the boy settled for resting his head on her shoulder, his eyes continued watching Red Harvest.

          “Thank you,” she said.

          Red nodded again.

           “No, I mean it, Red Harvest,” Stella’s expression became earnest. “Not just for corralling my nephew, here. Thank you for everything. Anything you need, you just have to ask. You’re always welcome here. And I hope you know that.”

           “I…”

           And there it was: the hateful dissonance between knowing and accepting. Red floundered for words. What could he say? That he’d fulfilled his purpose in Rose Creek and wanted to move on despite the numerous times it had been professed that he was welcome there? He thought that maybe a small part of him did belong to them; he was now an indelible part of Rose Creek’s story, after all. Could he tell her, or anyone else, that he remained on the outskirts of town, and broke bread within its confines only rarely because staying there made him ache so horribly to see his own family?

          “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, managing a smile before walking away with uncertain steps.

           Red was entertaining thoughts of going on a hunt when his feet led him to the lumber yard.

           “Hey,  _mano_.”

           Red Harvest lifted his head to see Vasquez approaching. It surprised Red that Vasquez had stayed in Rose Creek; but if Red was glad of anyone’s company, it was the Mexican’s. Red joined him and they worked in companionable silence until darkness filled the valley.

           “Hungry?” Vasquez’s voice followed Red as he began to make his way to his little camp outside of town.

           “Yeah,” Red said; because he was.

           Vasquez tilted his head to the side, indicating that Red should follow.

           Red looked back toward his camp, but then trailed after Vasquez.

           They had the dining room mostly to themselves. Even if that hadn’t been the case, Red had noticed on occasions when he did take his meals in town that members of The Seven were generally granted deference where seating arrangements were concerned. Vasquez spoke about construction plans, and listed the progress that had already been made.

           Red wondered what made Vasquez stay. A respite from a life of running, Red guessed, was likely motivation enough. Even so, Vasquez hardly seemed the type to settle down for any duration of time.

          Vasquez carried the conversation, and Red nodded in the appropriate places as he mechanically chewed his food. Taking a bite of bread, Vasquez chuckled, as if conceding that current events in Rose Creek had become decidedly less dynamic.

           “You good, Red?” Vasquez’s voice had a more serious tone than his expression might have suggested.  

           “Mm-hmm,” Red answered, as he focused on the opposite wall and spooned an irresponsible amount of beans into his mouth.

           Vasquez’s gaze narrowed, and the corners of his moth turned downward. His eyes still smiled, though. Red thought he heard Vasquez mutter something that sounded like, “Very mature, little brother,” but Red’s attention was drawn by Sam Chisolm’s arrival.

           “Hey,” Sam said before joining them.

           Sam’s typically immaculate, dark clothes were laden with dust.

           Vasquez had finished his own dinner; and the rest of Red’s sat, forgotten, on its plate. For his own part, Sam ate heartily and silently. There was an ease about Sam’s expression that had not been there before his departure from Rose Creek. The two younger men watched, and kept themselves from disrupting Sam’s meal. It occurred to Red that he had not been the only one waiting for Sam to return, and he felt the pull of fraternal sentiment.

           Sam ate the last of his food, wiped his mouth, and pushed his plate away before standing.

           “Good to see the two of you,” Sam said before walking toward the door and casting a glance backward. “Thought I’d go see Faraday now.”

* * *

           “I find myself in some illustrious company, don’t I?” Faraday asked when he saw that all of The Seven had congregated. “That’s the right word, ain’t it, Goodnight? ‘Illustrious’?”

           “Suppose it depends on what you think you mean,” Goodnight said.

            Laughter rumbled through the makeshift infirmary.

           Red rested the small of his back on a chest of drawers that stood between Faraday’s and Jack’s beds; and took stock of his company. Faraday had far fewer bandages than the last time Red had seen him. Goodnight sat on the foot of Billy’s bed, and Billy sat whittling a piece of wood; though, what shape it would eventually take, Red could not tell. Jack sat on his own bed, and Vasquez leaned on the wall by the door.

           The darkness that was not banished by candles was kept at bay by the moonlight that slanted its way through the windowpanes. Sam was cast in both warm and cold light as he sat in a chair by the window. Conversation was stoked, and the longer it continued, Red found himself caring less and less that the subject of an exit from Rose Creek had not been broached. The moon rose higher as they all laughed harder, and life seemed to Red Harvest to be less complicated than it had for the past few weeks.

* * *

           “No, no! Now, if I were a gambling man,” Faraday said, jerking a thumb in Red’s direction. “I’d say Red’s never done anything stupid in his entire life.”

           “What do you mean _, ‘if’_ you were a gambling man?” Red asked as he arched his eyebrows at Faraday’s assertion.

           “Good point,” Faraday granted with a bark of laughter. All others in attendance nodded. That Red Harvest was a sensible man seemed to be the consensus.

          Faraday’s hands wandered to his bandages then flattened themselves on the bedclothes. Even with the sense of bonhomie emanating through the room, Red saw self-consciousness flicker over Faraday’s face. Red decided that if their positions had been switched, Red would have lost his mind.

           “Maybe once I did something stupid,” Red admitted, as he smiled and looked down at the floorboards.

           “Twice,” Goodnight said. “If you count following Sam.”

           “And we’re all grateful you did,” Sam pointed out, as sounds of agreement echoed.

           “I went against my elders’ wishes,” Red said, realizing that the muscles in his face were smarting from smiling more than they were accustomed to.

His words gained the attention of the others. It might have been a trick of the light, but they all could have sworn that the lone wolf in their ranks looked sheepish.

           “One of my brothers and I decided to have our own raid,” Red began. “We were young. Neither of us had killed our first buffalo yet, but we were eager to prove ourselves.”

           Red thought back to that night. Clear sky and a moon that was nearly full.

            _Just like tonight_ , he thought as he remembered mounting a fleet-footed, red mare and following his older brother beneath the moon’s silvery guidance.

           “We were going to make a competition of it; see who could bring back the most. We both knew it was foolish, but we goaded each other on anyway. Swift Talon was the better rider, and I was the better fighter…”

           Red paused. It felt good to say his brother’s name aloud, even if it was the English facsimile thereof. What he elected to omit from the story was that disease took Swift Talon two winters later; and from then on, Red resolved to nourish all of his talents equally until he was a peerless warrior.

           “Who won?” Faraday asked.

           Red looked from face to face, and realized that he’d lost himself in the memory; and worse yet, that a lump had developed in his throat.

           “No one,” he said, forcing air from his lungs in an imitation of laughter. “No one won. Bright Eagle, a warrior from our tribe, caught us. Brought us back to our camp.”

           Red remembered the sound Bright Eagle’s horse made when the beast came to a halt in front of him and Swift Talon. It was more a roar than a whinny, and its rider was equally suited to the act of war. But there he was, interfering in the mischief of children who were too impatient for battle.

          “He didn’t say a word the whole way back.” At the time, Red thought it would have been preferable if Bright Eagle had viciously upbraided them. Save for the occasional glance to where Swift Talon sulked atop his horse, Red had kept his eyes forward for the duration of the journey. “I don’t think he ever told anyone, though.”

_Then again_ , Red realized,  _I hadn’t shared that story with anyone, either._


	2. Couldn't Ever Make the Comfort Stick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader-Insert wherein the reader, who joins The Seven, knew Goodnight beforehand; and he's like a father figure to them.

 

 

          You’d already made a name for yourself by the time you tracked down Goodnight Robicheaux and the rest of The Seven. You hadn’t seen each other since you were a child and Goodnight had been a much younger man. He’d recognized you right away, though; and he pulled you into a back-breaking embrace.

           “I ain’t seen you since-”

           “Just after the war,” you supplied.

           He pulled you into another hug, and kissed your temple.

           “You got taller,” Goodnight said as he held you at arm’s length with a hand on each of your shoulders.

           “Indeed, I did,” you confirmed.        

           Excelling in height as you aged was inevitable, but you felt a swell of pride at Goodnight’s observation, nonetheless.

          He introduced you to his companions, and the eight of you spent hours exchanging tales, though these eventually turned to your reminiscences of Goodnight, and his of you.

           “What brings you here?” Goodnight asked when conversation finally died down in the wee hours of the morning.

           He gave you a smile that looked like home; but his eyes searched yours, telling you that he knew your presence was more than just a happy coincidence.

           You shrugged. It was a more flippant motion than you’d intended.

           “See an old friend. Make some new ones. Maybe join up?” Try as you might, you couldn’t hide your giddy expectation as your gaze roamed from face to face.

           All eyes turned toward Sam Chisolm, who sat in quiet deliberation before rendering his verdict.  

           “Up to you, Goody,” Sam said as stood, crossed the room and squeezed Goodnight’s shoulder. “What do you think?”

           Something in Goodnight’s expression soured in a nearly imperceptible way; and you guessed that he hadn’t expected to have the decision placed in his hands. Your pride smarted a little, but you smiled nonetheless. You knew the Angel of Death wouldn’t deny you. And judging by the look on his face, he knew it, too.

           “I think,” Goodnight said, “That that kid would give the devil a run for his money.”

           Sounds of approval rose up from the rest of the group, and more drinks went around. You rode out with them two days later.

           “Their mama would have my hide if she knew,” Goodnight confided to Billy when you were well out of earshot.

           Billy just smiled and reflected on the way Goodnight’s accent, and your own seemed to compound each other when you were together.

***

          Most of The Seven called you “Kid,” or “The Kid.” You bit back any initial chagrin you might have felt for the moniker. There was no scorn in the use of the nickname; it was purely affection. Red Harvest called you by your given name, though; and you wondered if he was expressing some sort solidarity with you, as you took over the mantle of “youngest.”

         While you itched to prove yourself in battle, you settled in all too quickly; and after a week of riding, the road seemed to have become a place of routine. Sam and Red Harvest took the lead. Faraday and Jack rode behind them, followed by you, Billy and Goodnight; while Vasquez kept watch at the back of the party. If the road became narrow, you would all ride single file. Mountains gave way to hills. Those hills gave way to flat terrain; and the scenery became much less dynamic for that fact.

          Your eyes scanned the horizon. Unless it was a flight of fancy on your part, you could have sworn you saw an outline of a town in the distance. Your hand searched your pockets for your packet of cigarettes.        

         “Goddammit, Faraday,” you muttered when you found them missing.

         Alcohol and tobacco weren’t, strictly speaking, communal property within the group; but Faraday seemed to have a knack for borrowing those items and failing to return them. Your eyes narrowed on his back, and as though he sensed this, he turned in his saddle to face you.

        “You can get more in town, Kiddo.” The cigarette that was nestled between Faraday’s lips bobbed up and down as he spoke.

        “Gee, thank you kindly, Faraday.”

        Your southern drawl was colored with annoyance. As if sensing your mood, the paint mare you rode (the most ill-tempered creature you’d ever owned) tossed her head. With gentle tension on the reigns, you advised the horse against rash behavior. You continued to ride along in silence with the The Seven. Or was it eight, now? At your side, Billy proffered a cigarette, and you accepted gratefully. You lit it, inhaled, and decided the number was inconsequential. The pace picked up and you drew nearer to the town.

        “Y’all settle in,” Sam’s voice floated back from the front of the procession. “I’m gonna talk to the Sheriff, and we’ll all meet later.”

***

           Two days later, you found yourself sitting with Goody atop the tallest building in that little town. The place had developed a problem with a sizable pack of bandits.

           “Why am I up here, instead of down there?” That was the most pressing among the many questions you wished to ask Goodnight.

           “Sam designated our positions,” Goodnight said as he shrugged and made no attempt to look at you.

           You neither expected, nor wanted any special treatment within the group; you didn’t need to be kept safe. You inhaled a breath, ready to accuse Goodnight of intervening in Sam’s plans, but Goodnight continued before you could voice your thoughts.

           “You’re a good shot with a rifle,” he said, without taking his eyes off of his own.

           “You know, somehow, I feel like that should mean more comin’ from Goodnight Robicheaux, himself. Besides, I’d be better at ground-level.”

           “Then ain’t this the perfect opportunity to practice long-range?” Goodnight asked.

           He smiled at his own joke, but his eyes asked you, in the quietest of ways, to understand. Goodnight had been grateful that you’d been too young to truly be involved in the war, but he was not surprised that you’d grown into a life that was far more unruly than what your upbringing would have allowed. When you were small, you’d listened to innumerable adventure stories from a perch on Goodnight’s knee. Now you were living your own, and the danger was more than just a fanciful part of the plot.

            _This ain’t what I wanted for you_ , he thought, the words stopping just shy of finding his voice.  _Please don’t be like me_.

           “Goody, I…” You were unsure of what to say, but whatever it was went far beyond squabbling about battle tactics.

           The  _joie de vie_  and gentility that you and your family had had such fondness for had not fled Goodnight in the least; but there was something else now. Or maybe it had always been there, and you’d been too young to understand. You shook your head and gave Goodnight an ear-to-ear smile that he returned without hesitation.

        “What  _are_  we doin’ here?” You asked, unable to prevent laughter from bubbling up.

        “Philosophically, or just generally?”

        “Both, I suppose?” Your voice cracked with laughter.

        “Well, you remember Old Man Thibodaux?” Goodnight asked, as his own mirth jostled his words.

       You didn’t have to delve far into your memory to recall your town’s noted curmudgeon.

      “Yeah,” you said as you raised an eyebrow at Goodnight’s conversational tack. “What about him?

      “Anyone ever tell you how he got that limp of his?”

      “Not that I recall.”

      Goodnight cradled his rifle.

       “He had this mare. Sweet little thing, but he beat her anyway. Drop of a hat. Well, one day she got fed up, and she kicked him. He was laid up for a couple months.”

       Any encounter you’d ever had with Old Man Thibodaux didn’t make you sorry or surprised to hear the story.

      “What happened to the horse?” You asked.

      “I bought her.”

      The two of you whooped and sniggered until the bandits rode into view.

      “So, here we are, then,” you said as you raised your rifle to your shoulder.  “Some swift and terrible hoof of justice?”  

      On the top of an adjacent building, Red Harvest nocked an arrow. Even at a distance his black, red and white war paint was as vibrant as it was daunting.

     “That’s more or less the size of it. Only, these boys won’t be limpin’ outta here,” Goodnight said before taking a breath and squeezing the trigger.

* * *

 

           Billy tightened a bandage around your arm, and you sucked in air through your teeth. He paused in his ministrations, and looked at you; his expression advised you not to be a baby. In return, you looked at the assassin as balefully as you dared before taking a pull on your flask of whiskey. The two of you sat on the bed, in the room that Goodnight and Billy had been sharing.

           “Could have stayed on the roof,” Billy said, remaining focused on the task at hand.

           “You know, Goody said something similar,” you confessed, as you tried to recall the particularly inventive language he had used. “Though, he heavily implied that he may as well have shot me himself.”    

           Billy smiled at this.

           “Just the same, I’m sure Vasquez appreciates it,” Billy said as he finished tying your bandage. “There. Done.”

           “Thanks,” you said, moving your arm and testing Billy’s handiwork.

           You offered Billy a drink, but he put a hand up, declining the gesture. You took another sip for yourself, and your shoulders began to relax as you felt the manic energy of battle ebb away. Your limbs felt heavier, and you became very much aware of how empty your belly felt.

           “Goody. Is he…” you began with the certainty of youthful weariness that Billy would have the answers to the questions that you didn’t quite know how to ask. “Is he…okay?”

           Billy sighed, but there was a warmth in his expression that prevented you from blurting all of the concerns you’d developed for Goodnight since you’d started sharing the road with The Seven: How sometimes Goody stared into the fire a little too deeply, like he was somewhere else entirely. How he flinched at nothing then looked to see if anyone had noticed. How he was the man you knew so many years ago, but goddammit, there was something,  _something_ , there. And maybe it wouldn’t be there if you’d been there for him, somehow. And it wasn’t  _fair_.

           You drew your sleeve down, over your arm, and your posture sagged a little lower.

           “He’s still Goodnight,” Billy said, as though he’d seen the thoughts playing through your mind. “And he’s better off now than he’s been in the past.”

           Billy was a man of few words, but his face made it clear that he had played host to the same worries about Goodnight. You nodded, and absently turned your flask over in your hands. Its  _fleur de lis_  design reminded you of your home, and for the first time in a long time it felt far away. The two of you sat in the quiet dimness of the room.

           “How long can I expect the silent treatment to keep up?”

           Billy glanced at you, and you both shared a grin.

           “Right,” you said, stifling a yawn with the back of a hand. “He’s still Goodnight.”

           Brisk footsteps approached then stopped outside. There were two knocks, and the door opened. Goodnight entered, carrying two plates of food.

           “Thought you could use something to eat,” Goodnight said as he handed a plate to Billy, who gave a nod of gratitude.

         Goodnight handed you the second plate, but he barely spared you a glance.

        “Thank you,” you said as your stomach snarled at the scent of beans and bread.

         Goodnight made no reply, but you began to eat, displaying only the minimum amount of decorum. After pacing the length of the room several times, Goodnight sat in the chair opposite the bed. Perhaps for the first time, you noticed the lines in his face, and the silver that was starting to work its way into his hair.

         “Sam says we’ll move out in the morning,” Goodnight said, still addressing Billy.

         You paused in your chewing, and regarded Goodnight. For a horrible time, you were certain you would be excluded from the group’s departure. Goodnight’s gray eyes wandered over to you, and he allowed the silence to hang over you like a judge’s sentence.

        “All of us,” he said, at last.


	3. Home Again, Home Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not a request, but something I wrote for Mag7 Week. Modern AU where Billy returns after a job, and has a nerve-wracking ride home when he can't reach Goodnight.

      

 

__

          Billy called Goodnight’s phone the second he’d disembarked the plane; and several more times on his way to his car. No answer.

_Goody, I’m back. Call me._

          He rolled the window down and lit a cigarette before calling Sam’s number. No answer there, either, so Billy left a message.

            _Hey, Sam._   _I’m on my way home. It’ll be about an hour before I get in. Goody didn’t pick up his phone. Give me a call back and let me know if you’ve heard from him. Thanks. Bye._

           It was late, but Sam was probably working. Billy put the phone in a cup holder and left the parking lot. Several minutes later he flicked the butt of his cigarette out the window and considered lighting another one. Instead, he pressed the accelerator harder and turned on the radio. He kept the volume low, lest he miss a phone call.

           The voice on the radio had been nothing more than white noise until the subject of the monologue touched upon the country’s wholesale decline in mental healthcare. Billy jabbed the radio’s “power” button and picked up his phone. No missed calls. He didn’t think there would be, but he was no less bothered by the fact.

 _Shit_ , Billy thought as he tried again.  _Pick up,_  he willed Goodnight as the phone continued to ring before going to voicemail again.

            _Hey, you’ve reached Goodnight’s phone. Leave a message and I’ll get back to y’all as soon as I can._

           The recording of his husband’s voice made the absence of the real thing that much more vexing. Billy huffed out a breath and dropped his phone back in the cup holder, acknowledging the current spite he felt for the device was unjustified.

           Billy did the only thing he could do: He drove, all the while reigning in his need to floor the gas pedal. There was little traffic, but in the back of his mind, Billy was certain that any car he saw would somehow become an impediment to his return to his and Goodnight’s apartment building. He picked up his phone, but set it back down. He was miles out, and then only blocks. He thought to treat the red traffic lights as polite suggestions, but the appearance of a patrol car in his rearview mirror was admonishment enough for Billy.

           He parked in the garage then took the elevator. Until the door opened on his floor, Billy felt the horrible certainty that the machine would stall and trap him. It didn’t. It dinged reassuringly, and the door opened without incident. He readjusted his carry-on bag’s strap on his shoulder as he fled into the hallway. Each step was faster than the one before it, but Billy kept himself from breaking into a panic-stricken sprint. He was spurred by the growing certainty that he was too late.

            _Too late for what?_

           Billy reached the apartment door and found that he had to coax the keys from the flesh of his palm. It took him several tries to align the key with the keyhole…and it didn’t fit.

            _That’s because it’s the key to the office_ , his mind snarled at him.

           He found the correct key, and wondered if, by some cruel twist of fate, it wouldn’t work either. He quickly disabused himself of the notion.

           The lights were off in the living room and the kitchen. No one was in the restroom. He removed his phone from his pocket and called Goody’s phone and listened for the ringtone within the apartment. Nothing.

            _No, no, no. I knew I shouldn’t have taken the job._  Billy thought.  _I just got you back. Where are you?!_

. Billy’s fingers were latched around the strap of his carry-on bag, and Goodnight’s recorded voice suggested he leave a message. All Billy could think of was how well Goodnight had been doing, and how proud he had been when Goody returned from the hospital. It had only been two weeks ago. Billy’s feet carried him into the bedroom and his knees very nearly went weak.

           Framed in soft lamplight, Goodnight lay on the bed, asleep. The book that rested on his chest rose and fell with his breathing. The gentle motion was nearly hypnotic. Billy exhaled and made a noise in the back of his throat that could have been the beginning of laughter or tears; he wasn’t sure which. Goodnight looked so peaceful; comfortable. He wore cotton bottoms and a shirt that Billy had bought for him. Its fabric had since grown tatty and soft.

           Goody stirred and his eyes focused on Billy.

            _You didn’t pick up your phone. How was I supposed to know if you were okay?_

           “Hey,” Goodnight said; the lazy curve of his mouth going a long way toward making Billy forget his worries.

           “Hey,” Billy echoed.

           “You gonna put down your bag?”

           Billy shook his head and smiled, pressing his eyes closed for a moment. Still holding his luggage, Billy strode over to the bed. He took Goodnight’s face in his hands, and touched his lips to his forehead.

           “I missed you,” Billy said.

* * *

           The next morning, Billy found a message from Sam explaining that Goodnight had visited for dinner the night before and left his phone.


	4. Somebody That I Used to Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader-Insert fic. The Reader knew Red Harvest when the were younger, and they have a cute reunion.

 

 

 

          Apart from yourself and the bartender, the saloon you sat in was empty. Sunday morning. You figured everyone was at church, and the relative solitude suited you. The corner table you occupied afforded you a view of the men who entered the bar. The darkly clad black man was followed by a tall Mexican.

          “I’m just saying, Vasquez, that I’ve never had to pay for it,” said the white man who was on the heels of the Mexican.

           “I suppose you’re going to tell me they pay you, huh, Faraday?”

           “Not quite,” Faraday said with a bark of laughter. “But they won’t take my money, either.”

           That elicited a long-suffering eye roll and a grudging chuckle from Vasquez, who propped his elbows on the bar. You were relatively certain you heard him said something like, “Oh, you’ll still pay for it,  _mi amigo_.”

           A fourth member of the unique procession entered through the batwing doors. Maybe it was the way his dark eyes roamed the room, his high cheekbones, or the angle of his jaw that made your breath hitch. Maybe it was something more subtle than that, but you gaped as recognition, and the denial thereof, burned in your mind.  

            _It can’t be him_ , you thought.

          Cautioning yourself against false hope had become a reflex.

_Before_

_You and your family met with members of the Comanche band every several months, on the mornings after new moons. You traded your goods, and no one asked -or cared -where your particular bounties came from. You looked forward to meetings. You’d made a friend, of sorts: the Comanche boy who was in attendance. As you were around the same age, the two of you gravitated toward each other. On your first meeting, you both stood across from each other while the adults bartered. You and the boy regarded each other with the curiosity to which youth is entitled. For the benefit of your parents, your faces remained sullen, but smiles played at the corners of your eyes._

_You took steps and counter steps, as though you were sizing each other up. You circled each other with feigned suspicion; and when you found yourselves in the places you began, you both grinned without reservation. A friendship of sorts bloomed from there. The two of you rarely played; at least not in the overly boisterous way that would be expected of children. Though you were both expected to learn from your parents’ dealings, you would occasionally wander together. You would race each other, and you would exchange things. Sometimes they were words in one another’s languages; sometimes they were little odds and ends that you would both lose in short order._

_You grew together. You learned. Life continued in that agreeable pattern…until it didn’t. The boy, who became a warrior called Red Harvest, and his family ceased to meet with yours. An explanation was never offered, but it wasn’t needed. The government was forcing Native peoples onto increasingly smaller tracts of land. Your father lamented that it was a damn shame on my many accounts. And you agreed with absent nods while you regretted the loss of your friend._

_There were times when you’d nearly convinced yourself that the boy had been a figment of your imagination._

          Gunfire snapped you from your reverie. Everyone in the bar went still, until more reports sounded in short order. You heard the bartender say something about a band of outlaws having returned. There was the collective rustling of cloth and leather. Everyone who had weapons adjusted them in preparation for a fight, and you were no exception.

          “Y’all are welcome to get into the cellar if you want,” the bartender said as he took a shotgun from under the bar. “I’ll be protecting my establishment.”

           No one took the bartender up on his offer; and he smiled as though he hadn’t expected that anyone would, anyway.

          “You sure know how to pick ‘em, Sam,” Faraday said.

          Judging by his smile, you guessed that his words were spoken in jest. In fact, there was no one in attendance who did not look as though they were capable of violence.

          Hands found their way to weapons, and if it hadn’t been clear before that Sam was the leader of that little band, it was now. They were ready for a fight at a moment’s notice, but they all looked to him before making a move. You watched the impassive features of the Native man.

_Handsome_ , you thought, even as you marshaled your energy toward a fight.

         You thought to offer an introduction, but before he could say a word, a man of Eastern descent rushed through the door. Guns and silver knives were situated around his hips, but it was the blood-stained blades in his hands that drew your attention. Something clicked in your mind in that moment. Stories about seven men who took on an army, saved a town, and lived to tell the tale. If you weren’t mistaken, there should be several more in their ranks.

          “How many, Billy?” Sam asked.

          “Thirty,” Billy said in a voice that was quiet, but commanded attention, nonetheless. “Maybe more. The ones that aren’t looting are around the church. Hostages.”

          “Goody?”

          “Across the street, on the general store’s roof.”

          “Jack?”

          “I don’t know,” Billy said as he gave a small shake of his head.

          Sam sighed and nodded at the concise report, before putting on his hat.

          “Red?” Sam asked.

          The Native man lifted his head upward in response.

_Red?!_  Your mind gripped the name. Surely, that was more than just coincidence?

          Sam tilted his head toward the second story window, and Red nodded in understanding. He looked at you as he walked, wordlessly, toward the stairs. His dark eyes flickered over you in a quick study. You held your breath. If he recognized you, he gave no indication; and you could only watch as he scaled the stairs and disappeared out the window.

          “How about you?” Sam inquired.

          You realized you were being addressed, and you ceased your scrutiny of the window.

          “Those ain’t just for show are they?” Faraday interpreted as he tilted a head toward your revolvers.

          “Not just,” you said, as you matched his giddy grin.

* * *

          Red nocked the arrow he’d drawn from his quiver and surveyed the streets while staying as out-of-sight as he could. He could see Goodnight on a catty-corner roof. They would wait until Sam and the rest began a counter attack to provide cover. The anticipation he would usually have felt was replaced by the flutter of uncertainty; and he required no introspection to discover the source. He thought of you, and the way the two of you used to race and laugh. He thought of the fall of your hair, and the color of your eyes. He thought the shape of your lips and the way they used to form smiles just for him.

_It’s you_ , he thought.  _It has to be_.

          The Seven had faced far worse odds. In point of fact, they had been hopelessly outmatched by Bogue’s army. But now that it appeared you might join this conflict, the risk seemed unreasonable. He heard movement at the back of the building he stood on. On silent feet, he pedaled himself over and peered down. He watched you and Faraday exit the saloon and start in the direction of the church. He watched you go and might have gotten lost mapping the familiarity of your movements, if it hadn’t been for the beginning of the fray.

          With effort, he unrooted himself from his position at the back of the building. If you and Faraday were taking the back way toward the church to flank the men there, you’d be as safe as you could hope to be. He’d seen your guns, and your readiness for a fight. Though he wanted to watch your every move and keep you safe, his instinct as a warrior told him that you were not an easy mark. He directed his attention to the front of the saloon, where Sam and Billy were embattled.

          Red loosed an arrow that streaked through the air until it tore into the meat of a raider’s throat before that man could gun down Sam. Movement in an alley across the street told him that Vasquez was taking the parallel route to you and Faraday. Red heard gunfire issue from the last place he’d seen you, and it took all of his strength not to run that way. He knew he, and the rest of The Seven could not afford for his attention to be divided.

* * *

          As you made your way toward the church, you reminded yourself to watch Faraday’s back, as opposed to the rooftops. Just in time, too. Four men peeled around the corner, but they payed you no mind until you and Faraday began firing on them. The only shot any of them managed went wide, and by the time their bodies collapsed into the dust you and the other gunslinger had moved on.

          You bypassed three more buildings before you met with more resistance. This time there were five, then six, then seven. You and Faraday chipped away at that number. Six, five, four. A round struck Faraday’s shoulder; and another grazed your thigh. You ignored the pain and returned fire with wild, wrathful passion, striking two more of your enemies dead. Then there was the hiss of an arrow. And another. But the protective shadow that had cast itself over you was gone as quickly as it had arrived.

          Faraday tucked himself behind a pile of lumber and began to reload. You followed suit.

          “You alright?” you asked as you both replenished your weapons’ rounds with dexterous fingers.

          “I’ve had plenty worse,” Faraday announced, as he moved his injured shoulder.

          You took note of his scars and wondered about the battle the men had fought together. Faraday continued to smile, even as he winced, and you considered that that was a line he used often, and with much aplomb.

          The two of you stood, and your eyes roamed the rooftops in search of another sign of your one-time friend.

          “You got a thing for Red?” Faraday asked as he grinned with the infuriating self-assurance of someone who was used to exploiting small details.  

          Rather than answer, you charged around the corner. Faraday followed, and the two of you gunned down several more men before settling at the final building before the church. There were shouts, and sporadic gunfire. You strained to hear footfalls above you, or the thrum of a bowstring being released. You knew it was folly, though. The chaos was already abating, and the half dozen men around the church were dispatched quickly. If you’d been less preoccupied with Red’s location, you might have found humor in the way the outlaws fled from the mountain man, Jack, you assumed; who burst from the church.

          The euphoria of battle you should have felt was entirely absent. You stood over a body that had an arrow protruding from its chest, as you searched the street. When you saw no sign of Red, you widened your search to include the rooftops, but to no avail.

          “Looks like I owe Red Harvest the bounty on this one,” Sam said as he walked up beside you. He looked from the corpse to the poster he held in his hands. Your mouth opened and closed; words escaped you. You looked at Sam. He didn’t seem concerned that Red was absent, and he lifted his eyebrows and made a show of shifting his gaze to the space behind you.

          You turned to see Red Harvest; and you smiled as you felt relief wash over you. He approached slowly, and then stopped. The arch in his brow, and his gaze made you wonder if he was asking the same questions about you that you’d been asking about him. There was hope mingled with doubt. You seemed to be at some sort of maddening impasse when he made an exaggerated step to his left. You offered a reciprocal motion and the two of you circled each other like you had so many years ago. He pulled you into his arms, and you hugged one another so fiercely that any onlookers might have thought you were trying to deprive each other of breath. It was still a more tender gesture than either of you had become accustomed to during the years that had separated you.

          You felt the warmth and strength of his body, and the way his necklace was pressed between you. He was real. He was there, along with all of the memories of the way life used to be.

          “I’m glad it’s you,” he breathed.


	5. You Don't Spit Into the Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader-Insert. Goodnight and Billy are in a poly relationship with a female reader, who has difficulty speaking. They find themselves in a situation where they defend her.

 

 

Shoulder-to-shoulder with you, Goodnight leaned with his back against a fence post. He appeared so diligently casual that you wondered –as you always did –to what degree Goodnight felt the calm he exuded. At any rate, you marveled at his ability to set up a duel so quickly.

You watched as Billy took his place, twenty-odd paces, opposite a rangy, smiling local man. Billy looked to be entirely without preoccupation. So calm. It was easy to believe he was incapable of losing. You’d never seen it occur, after all. Victory occasionally posed more of a threat than a loss, though; and so you would wait through this duel the same way you did all the other ones: with anxious pride.  

The man who officiated the match (a blacksmith by trade, Goodnight had said) introduced Billy and the other man, who was called Pete. The crowd received him with warmth, while they were indifferent to Billy. No surprise there. Indifference in these situations, you thought, was far preferable to ire.

“Ready?” the official bawled.

Both men nodded.

_I hate this part_ , you thought.

But maybe that wasn’t entirely true.

Billy’s was in his element. Unfailingly calm. You hated the framework of these fights, but there was a part of you that loved them. You loved watching Billy; loved to see him win.

The mediator’s pistol sounded. Two shots followed in quick succession, and two tin cups and the water they’d contained spiraled upward.

Billy won by a noticeable margin. Half the crowd cheered, and the other half grumbled. Only one among them –an attractive man with a scar that ran the length of his jawline –was particularly loud about his dissatisfaction with the result. He went quiet before too long, and Billy paid him no mind. You cheered outwardly, but you also steeled yourself for the inevitable backlash…but none came.

“Goddamn, that was fast!” came the breathless voice of Billy’s opponent.

Billy was always wary, and suspicion quirked his eyebrow as the younger man approached with a hand extended. When they shook hands, though, you could see that Billy decided that the man’s amicable reaction to the loss was genuine; and so you did, too.

Goodnight went around and collected the winnings in his hat and you found your way over to Billy, whose gaze was downcast as he reloaded his gun and listened to Pete talk. Pete tipped his hat at you as you approached.

“Miss,” he said.

You nodded a greeting and smiled, relieved that the stranger took such an amiable view of losing.

“Y’all’ve gotta let me buy you drinks tonight.”

You and Billy shared a cigarette and a dubious glance, but Goodnight answered for both of you as he approached.

“That sounds just fine to me. We’ve got a lot to celebrate.”

“That settles it,” Pete said as he extended a hand to Goodnight. “Meet me at the saloon tonight after sundown.”

The three of you looked at Pete, but he happily supplied the answer to the question you were all, wordlessly, asking.

“Only one in town,” he said, pointing own the street. “It’s just down the way.”

* * *

You sat in the tub with a cloth over your face. Slowly the heat of the water eased away the aches that had developed from being on the road for so long. Someone entered the room and walked with quiet footfalls, to the other side of the room. You could hear the unfastening of a weapon belt, and the sound of cloth brushing over flesh. You knew it was Billy; and you didn’t need to remove the cloth from over your eyes to know what he looked like as he, lean and bare, joined you in the tub.

Beneath the cloth, you smiled.

The door opened again and Goodnight’s lively footsteps interrupted the pleasant silence between you and Billy.

“Either of you seen my damn…”

You didn’t have to hear the rest of the sentence. You knew Goodnight was looking for the pocket watch he’d left on the table. You dragged your arm from under the water and pointed to the counter. You heard several ponderous steps, then an expression of epiphany.

“Wiseass,” you heard him say.

Your grin broadened. After Goodnight adjusted his watch, he crossed over to you and slowly peeled the cloth away from your face. He looked down at you, and you looked up at him.

“Got you something,” he said, keeping one hand behind his back.

“ _We_ ,” Billy corrected as he lolled his head to the side.

You thought you saw him wince at the motion, and you decided you would make it a point to offer to massage the muscle for him. The affection between you and Billy, as it had been with Goodnight, had been instant; but it had taken a while before Billy let you care for him in even the smallest of ways.  

“Right,” Goodnight amended, with the flicker of a sheepish grin. “ _We_ got you something.”

You looked from Goodnight, to Billy, then back again, and you crinkled your nose. That small change in your expression conveyed your intended meaning:  _You didn’t have to do that._

“Well, we ain’t takin’ it back,” Goodnight said.

Such sweet-natured belligerence earned him your smile. You nodded, and Goodnight produced the small box he’d been concealing. You reached for it, but your hands were wet. You lifted your chin a little, delegating the honor to Goodnight. He opened the box, and revealed a silver chain and locket. You could tell that the craftsmanship was of singular quality. Your index finger hovered above the locket; and in the air you traced the shape of your initials, imitating the way they were elegantly scrawled on the cover. Goodnight opened the locket. Within, there was a picture of Goodnight on the left, and one of Billy on the right.

It was lovely, and the welling of emotion you felt made forming words even more difficult for you than it already was. You took a breath and focused on the words, your mind working to unjumble the syllables; the inflection.

“I l-love it,” you said.

“Happy birthday,” they said in unison.

* * *

Several hours later, the three of you found yourselves in the town’s saloon. If it had a name, it was likely only known to those who frequented it. As it turned out, Pete was good on his word about buying drinks. The music was lively and Goodnight took you around the dance floor. The two of you stopped only when you were both laughing too hard to continue. Breathless, and rosy-cheeked, you rejoined Billy, who had been watching you and Goodnight with a small smile on his face. Pete joined you with another round of drinks.

It would have been difficult, even if you had been so inclined, to get a word in between Goodnight and Pete. The two prattled on, on the subject of war, and travel, and gunfights. Pete freely shared the town’s gossip and advised them about the best places to shop and eat. The conversation shifted in Billy’s direction. Pete informed you that Billy had to be the quickest draw he’d ever seen.

Pete asked you questions that could be answered with nods of shakes of your head. He didn’t bother stating that you didn’t say much, and as such, you thought that he must be the best host that you, Goodnight and Billy had ever had the good fortune to encounter.

“You lost me some money today, Petey.”

Your quartette turned in the direction of the voice. You recognized the handsome, scarred man from the corral. Pete eyed the man before his sanguine nature took over. He shrugged and smiled.

“Well, I can’t help that you bet on the wrong horse, Joe.”

Joe continued to glower before muttering something, shaking his head and turning away.

“Is he a problem?” Billy asked.

“Nah,” Pete said. “Even I can outdraw him. Besides, my dad’s the Sherriff.”

The three of you laughed at this, but if you weren’t mistaken there was something lonely in Pete’s smile that you hadn’t noticed before. It was there and gone, though and all of you continued to converse as if nothing had happened.

You stood and told Goodnight and Billy you were going to step out for a moment. You looked back on your way out, though you didn’t need to, to know that they would be watching you.

* * *

           Compared to the inside of the bar, the veranda was quiet; but it was not so quiet that you didn’t hear heavy steps approach you.

           “Hi there.”

           You were unsure if it was Goodnight and Billy’s absence, or your own instinct that made your muscles grow tense, but you were very much aware that Joe was between you and the entrance to the saloon.

           You nodded, but made a move to return to the inside of the building.

           “Aw, now what’s your hurry?” he asked as he stepped in front of you.

           You glared up at him as he ran a finger along the scar on his jawline. The mark, you saw, did nothing to detract from even planes of his face and his bright green eyes. But there was something else there, too. There was self-righteous entitlement that caused you to step backward.

           “I just wanted to say hello,” he said as his eyes raked over you. “Don’t you wanna say hi back?”

           You moved your head from side to side and crossed your arms over your chest. You didn’t use your voice, but there was no equivocation in your reply.

           “That ain’t polite,” he said as he stepped closer, makintg to touch your arm.

“There a problem out here?”

Goodnight’s arrival, for all you knew, might well have been divine intervention. He put himself between you and Joe. There was glint in his eyes that you had never seen; and there was ferocity there that you would not have believed, had you not seen it yourself.  Goodnight flashed a smile. It was tantamount to bearing his teeth.

Joe sneered at Goodnight.

“Somethin’ on your mind?”

“As a matter of fact, there is.”

“Is that right?”

Goodnight nodded and ran his tongue over his lips.

“Mmhmm,” he said, though his reply could have been mistaken for a growl. “I don’t think you wanna be kickin’ this particular hornet’s nest.”

There was the sound of a gun cocking and for a horrible moment you thought your assailant had pulled his piece on Goodnight. That was not the case, though. Goodnight’s handgun was level with the man’s stomach.

The man laughed at this. It was the sound of someone who was either too capricious or too stupid to care. Whatever fear you’d felt was replaced by anger. You straightened your arms, balled your hands into fists.

“You ain’t gonna shoot me.”

Movement behind the man drew your eye.  Billy walked up behind him with the silent confidence of a predator.

“Naw, maybe not,” Goodnight said with a cluck of his tongue. He didn’t holster his gun, though. “That would be loud. Messy. Though, maybe it would be fitting. Now, Billy, there; he could maim you. Quickly, quietly. And he could cut you open in a dozen different ways in the space of a few seconds.”

You didn’t see Billy move, but the way Joe’s eyes went wide, and the way his Adam’s apple bobbed told you that Billy had a blade pressed into his back.

“And you know what?” Goodnight asked, his tone low, but laced with cold humor.

Joe stood there, mute and chastised.

“I asked you a question, son.”

The way Joe flinched, you surmised that Billy must have put new pressure on the knife.  

“ _What?_ ” He asked.

You would have been lying if you’d said the way Joe tried, and failed, to keep the panic out of his voice wasn’t gratifying. To most, Billy would have been implacable in that moment, but not to you. The set of Billy’s jaw, the tension in his shoulders, and the absolute focus in his gaze, begged Joe to give him a reason to do violence against him.

“Your guts,” Goodnight said with absolute sincerity,” would hit the floor before the rest of you.”

His voice was so low that only the four of you were privy to his words.

“You understand me?”

Joe looked at the ground and shook his head, affirming that he did.

“What was that?” Goodnight pressed. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Yes, what?”

Something in Goodnight’s eyes gleamed, and you realized you’d seen similar joy in cats toying with mice.

“Yes,  _sir_ ,” he grated out, insolence creeping back into his voice.

“Well,” Goodnight said. “That’s real good. Now all you have to do is apologize to this lovely lady, here. And we can part ways.”

Something stoked a flame in the younger man, and for a moment you thought he was going to lash out at the possibility of being forced into that indignity. With an expedient jab, Billy saw to it that that flame was extinguished.  

“ _A_ - _Alright, alright, C-Christ!_ ” he said, his voice juttered and rose in pitch. “Alright.”

He looked at you. Fear, anger and injured pride obscured whatever contrition may or may not have been there, but there was no doubt in your mind that he was sorry he crossed paths with you, Goodnight and Billy.

“I’m sorry, miss.”

You nodded, and rested your hand on Goodnight’s forearm as you met Billy’s gaze. They’d made their point.

“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that we don’t want to see you again,” Goodnight said before Joe skulked away without a backward glance.

Goodnight put an arm around your shoulders and you let out a breath. Billy put his blade in its respective sheath before taking your hand in his and brushing his thumb over your knuckles.

“Are you alright?” Billy asked; his outrage evident only to you and Goodnight.

Both men looked at you. You knew a nod would have been sufficient to express that you were no worse for wear. You knew neither of them felt entitled to your voice and that made you that much more determined to answer with a word.

“Yes,” you said.

It was the truth. There was relief and worry in both of their faces. They needed you as much as you needed them.  But some things, you thought, didn’t need to be said.


	6. The Night Sky Is No Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader-Insert. Goodnight helps a friend who has nightmares and panic attacks like he does.

 

 

 

 _Spring_

          “I thought wherever you go, Billy goes,” you told Goodnight when he arrived at your doorstep, absent his constant companion.

           “Oh, he does,” Goodnight said, grinning ear-to-ear as he embraced you. “He’ll just take a day or two to get here.”

           “Well, come on in,” you told him, ushering him into the house you would soon be departing.

           Goodnight took off his hat as he crossed the threshold.

           “Going somewhere?” He asked peering around as you led him to the guest room.

           Dust clothes covered most of your furniture; and you had packed nearly everything you wished to take with you. All that remained was your departure.

           “I am,” you said with more finality in your voice than you’d intended.  “At least for a little while. I, uh…got a little place out west.”

           “Going alone?”

           “Going alone.”

          You turned your eyes downward, and your tone informed Goodnight that you would not be divulging details.

          “Billy and I can find other accommodations,” Goodnight said. “It’s no trouble. I didn’t realize you were leaving.”

          “Oh, no,” you said waving your hand in the air as to imply that you would not hear of it. “The both of you are more than welcome. And, besides, I’ll be happy for the company.”

          “Well, then we’ll be happy to stay,” Goodnight said as he set his luggage on the bed you’d prepared. “Where should we go to toast your new beginning?”

          You and Goodnight found yourselves, as you always did during his visits, at the tavern on the corner of your street. Its food and atmosphere were always agreeable; and the two of you whiled away the evening with talk of warm memories. Then you moved onto the more recent past, and Goodnight talked extensively of Billy’s victories in various towns.

          “I really don’t think he can lose,” Goodnight said, his cheeks pink with more than the effects of the brandy the two of you were sharing.

          “I’ll have to see one of his fights someday,” you said.

          “Over in the blink of an eye, Goodnight said. “But everything leading up to that…” Goodnight chuckled, and shook his head. He let the thought go unfinished, but you sensed that he meant something more poetic than the alcohol was permitting him to convey.

          “But, such is life, I suppose,” you said, your expression light. Your tone was tired, but fond.

          “I’ll drink to that,” Goodnight said, as he replenished both of your glasses, and raised his own. “To my…honorary younger sibling and a new beginning.”

          You raised your glass also, happier than ever to count Goodnight Robicheaux among your friends. The two of you ambled home at so leisurely a pace, that once you reached your front porch, Goodnight swore that the sun was liable to rise before long. You both sniggered at the notion before going inside, and ascended the stairway with care.

          “I think I’ll be retiring for the evening,” you told him. “I’m just down the hall if you need anything.”

          “Oh, I should be fine,” he said. “Pleasant dreams.”

          You smiled, as you turned, hoping your expression appeared more genuine than it felt. Your dreams had been anything but sweet lately. You faced Goodnight once again before finding your way to your room.

         “Goodnight?”

         “ _Oui?_ ” he said as he leaned against the door frame.

         “It’s real good to see you.”

          “Good to see you, too.”

* * *

          Without Billy at his side, Goodnight found settling in more difficult than he would have cared to admit. So he tossed, and turned; and then he read by lamplight. He lay in bed and fidgeted with his pocket watch while he listened to your house’s unique creaks and groans. The gray of the morning hadn’t even begun to touch the sky when Goodnight heard birds begin their morning music. But something else was mixed in with those sounds. Something that was familiar to Goodnight on an instinctual level. Desperate, small noises roused him to action. It wasn’t until he was lightly knocking on your door that comprehended what he was doing.

          “Everything alright?”

          His voice was a hoarse whisper; he cleared his throat and tried again as he shifted the lamp in his grip. The only answer was the primal wail that came from the other side of the door.  Goodnight threw open the door and found you bunched against your headboard. Your gaze was wide, and wild. He knew that you were worlds away; and  he knew the dread of his own desolation in these occurrences. He only hoped he could reach you.

          He approached as calmly and quietly as he could while he quelled the riot that gathered in his own mind at the sight of you.

         “Hey, hey,” he said, fighting the urge to run to your bedside and lay comforting hands on you. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

         Your eyes looked past him –at what he wouldn’t have dared guess.

         He tried calling your name. You jolted at this, and looked about the room like a hounded creature that had no prospect of deliverance.

         “They…I…”

          You gulped air, and in those two small words Goodnight could hear the hysteria that was borne of your nightmare.

          “Shh, shh,” he hushed he as he closed the remaining distance between you and set the lamp on your bedside stand. “I know. I know. Trust me, I know.

          You looked at Goodnight with recognition then.

 _Thank God_ , he thought, though he recognized that he was in danger of babbling, as he tried to remember what Billy did for him when he was so afflicted. He wondered if Billy ever felt as helpless as he did.

          “It was just a dream,” he said. “I promise it was just a dream.”

           Your eyes glistened in the lamplight, and you looked downward as your lip trembled, and your breath became sobs. It wasn’t until that moment that Goodnight felt the second-to-second rhythm against his palm, and realized that he still carried his pocket watch.

          He sat on your bedside then.

          “Goody, I…I’m sorry.”

          “No need to apologize.” His face was softened with concern as he tried to meet your gaze. It pained him to see such shame and fear trouble your features. “You never need to apologize. You just need to breathe.”

          He touched his fingertips to the back of your hand and was relieved when you didn’t pull away.

          “Here,” he pressed the watch into your hand. “Feel that?”

          You felt the seconds tick past, and you nodded; but did not look up.

          “You’re here. Now. With me. Nothing’s gonna hurt you.”

           Gradually, you let him get closer until you were resting with your head beneath his chin. He babbled calm nonsense while he rubbed gentle circles on your back. He talked about Billy’s duels. He talked about his youth. He talked until sunup; and by the time his own eyes were growing heavy, he was reciting Shelley.

          “That orbed maiden with white fire laiden

          Whom mortals call the moon,

          Glides glimmering o’er my fleece-like floor,

          By the midnight breezes strewn.”

* * *

          The two of you spent the entirety of the next day living in the past in the best way that you could. Billy arrived that evening.

* * *

 _Autumn_

           Goodnight and Billy arrived in the fall. Their company was unexpected, but welcome; and you were only too happy to open your stores for your friends who had been on the road for quite some time. You prepared food, and poured the wine you’d purchased on your journey to your new home. Until their appearance, you’d found no reason to open it. It was red and sweet; and it sat like a pleasant memory on the tongue. But for all that, the same ghosts were still there; and they were haunting you with renewed vigor at the turn of the season.

           After you cleaned the dinner mess, Goodnight found the guitar that your house’s previous owners had left. You’d kept it, despite the fact it was dusty; and everything about it seemed brittle with disuse. That didn’t stop Goodnight from picking it up and trying to tune it, though.

          “Been awhile since I played one of these,” he said, smiling as though he’d just seen a long-lost acquaintance.

          His brow was furrowed as he strummed and adjusted the tuning pegs accordingly. Billy watched Goodnight. His eyes were half-lidded as he smiled.

         “More wine, Billy?”

          He mulled over your question for a moment. You thought he was going to decline, but he nodded and scooted his cup over to you to facilitate its refilling.

          “Thanks,” he said.

          “Don’t mention it.”

           You were about to ask Billy about what sort of traveling partner Goodnight was (after all, you had Goodnight’s account of Billy) when the sharp twang of a broken guitar string jolted you. Goodnight sucked in air through his teeth and rapped his hand around guitar’s neck.

         “Aw, damn!” He said, flashing a self-deprecating smile. “Sorry ‘bout that!”

          You masked your fright with laughter, but you set down the bottle harder than you’d intended. The world seemed to have tilted in that painful, familiar way that ensured your mind and heart would not settle.

 _Not now_ , you thought as you kneaded the nape of your neck.  _Don’t you dare._

           “Not a problem, Goody,” you said, hoping that the amount of time you took to reply wasn’t as noticeable as it felt; that they didn’t hear the way your burgeoning panic made yoru voice crack. “I wasn’t getting any use out of it, anyhow.”

           Something Goodnight’s face and posture tightened. He placed the guitar against the wall and stood.

           “You alright?”

           You made a sound that you hoped passed as confirmation that you were fine. When you began to clean the dinner mess, your guests began to help, but you forbade it. Instead, they sat and smoked cigarettes. You bustled while they relaxed; and you avoided eye contact all the who. Goodnight, you knew, was watching you, nonetheless.

          You put another log on the fire before excusing yourself to the back porch, leaving Goodnight and Billy in the cabin. You drew in the cool air.

          You found, by and large, that your new life suited you. It was quieter, and while your own self-sufficiency came as no surprise, there was pride and contentment in knowing that you were thriving.

         You held your own pocket watch in your hand and felt the steady, reliable passage of time.

           You reminded yourself to breathe.

           The chill of autumn made itself known all at once this year, and with it came the unavoidable. You tried to focus on the way the moonlight glinted on the frost, but the pure, contrasting blackness of the tree line dominated your attention. Memories that were darker still, crowded to your mind’s forefront, taunting and brutal and so…present. Goodnight’s and Billy’s voices were a thousand miles away. You dropped your watch.

            _Run_ , your mind told you.  _Run before it’s too late_.

           There was a tiny sound. It might have been a dying prey animal. It might have been you.

            _It is too late_ , something told you.

           Your back struck the wall, and it was only then that you realized your feet had propelled you backwards. You sank to your haunches and screwed your eyes shut against the onslaught, and gasped for air.

* * *

           You hadn’t seemed yourself to Goodnight. Then he reflected that, perhaps, you hadn’t for a while. When Goodnight heard a thud from your direction, he stood. So did Billy. Goodnight held up a hand, and Billy nodded his understanding. The assassin sat back down and watched as Goodnight followed your route of egress. Goodnight cursed himself for not doing more. He recognized the tension, the wariness. Despite what you said, he knew you weren’t okay; he knew it all too well.

           He found you, crumpled in on yourself, and drowning in your own mind. Once again he cautioned himself against rash, familiar action. So he crouched and cleared his throat.

           “Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay. I’m here. I’m here with you. We’re at your cabin. In the middle of God’s nowhere. You’re safe.”

           His words held no sway.

           “Whatever you’re seeing isn’t there,” he said, shifting closer. “It isn’t. I know it feels real, but there’s nothing there. There’s nothing there.”

           Your eyes went wide, and you took a breath so deep that Goodnight thought you would drag the night itself into your lungs.

           “Shh, shh,” he hushed you, keeping the distress form his voice. He was certain you were going to lose consciousness. “Breathe out. Please breathe out. Let it go. Let it go.”

           The air stuttered out of you, and your taut muscles shook.

“Can you look at me?”

           You nodded. It took time, but your eyes worked their way to meet Goodnight’s patient stare.

          “I can’t get away from it, Goody. And I’ve been mostly…mostly good, but it gets like this every year,” you told him. Your voice was hoarse, but there was fury beneath the weariness. “Every goddamn  _year!_ ”

          Goodnight watched as you trembled, and waged war with yourself. He was relieved to hear anger, rather than resignation in your voice. He grasped your shoulder, hoping to further anchor you.

         “How, Goodnight?” you asked as your voce hitched. “How do you do this?”

          “Deep breath. In through your nose,” he advised in a barely audible voice. “Breathe out slowly.”

          He gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and a pat.

          “That’s real good,” he said as you followed his instructions.

            There was only the sound of your respiration. Goodnight sat down beside you and thought, and wished desperately that he had an answer for you. He wanted you to feel right, and he needed to be honest. The internal conflict it created caused him to rest his head against the wall as he listened to your breathing even out. Eventually, you sat down next to him. He searched his mind for Billy’s voice, but to his surprise, he heard Sam Chisolm’s.  _What we lost in the fire we will find in the ashes_.

          “We both got to walk away from terrible things,” he said, at last. “We survived. We get an after. So we take the parts of ourselves that are left –the good and the bad –and we do our best with them. And I know it’s shitty, and it’s not fair. But maybe, sometimes, what he have left has to be enough. That’s what we build on.”

          He handed you the watch that you had dropped, and the two of you sat, adrift in your own thoughts and private cycles.

         “It’s cold,” you said in a voice that sounded as though you wondered how the temperature had escaped your notice.

         “It is,” Goodnight agreed as he scratched his beard and smiled.

          You helped each other up and went inside where Billy was adding a log to the fire.

  

 


	7. Tonic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader-Insert. A feverish reader mistakes Jack for their father.

      

 

          As the evening wore on, your fever burned hotter. Jack sat on the foot of your sickbed, and watched as you fitfully shifted beneath all the blankets the cabin had to offer. No matter how many Jack had draped over you, it never seemed like enough. The furrows in Jack’s brow deepened. Your eyes were shut tightly as you shivered and clenched your jaws to keep your teeth from chattering.

            _Amen_ , Jack concluded a prayer before giving your foot a gentle squeeze, and standing.

          At last, Jack deemed the tea he’d made an appropriate temperature that he could offer it to you.

          “Hey,” he said, putting a hand on your shoulder.

          You didn’t respond, so he tried again until you looked up at him with red-rimmed, glassy eyes. The eye contact was fleeting, however. You lolled your head to the side, and made a sound so scored with misery that Jack felt an immense pang of guilt for having woken you in the first place.

          “Alright,” he said, as he sat down on the edge of the bed, and pressed a hand to your shoulder as insistently as he dared. “It’ll bring the fever down.”

          You moved your head in the direction of Jack’s voice and willed your eyes open until you peered at him with your fever-bright gaze. You tried to lift yourself up, but Jack could see that even that small act seemed to be a war of attrition. For your sake, Jack pretended not to see the way your lips trembled when you realized the depth of your own weakness.

         “S’okay,” he said, his voice even softer than usual. “I can help.”

         He put a hand behind your shoulder and gave you a quiet three-count before helping to lift you into a seated position. Jack nodded and gave you a tired, but approving smile.

          Wordlessly, he proffered the tin mug.

          You took the cup in your hand, but jack helped you lift it to your mouth, nonetheless. He met your eyes over the brim of the cup, and he saw that shame and thirst and sickness were all present there. He knew you weren’t used to accepting help.

         After a few sips, you stopped drinking.

         “Don’t be too proud, now,” he said. “A little more.”

          You resigned yourself to taking the rest of the draught, and afterward, slumped back down onto the mattress in exhaustion.

         Jack readjusted your covers then picked a cloth up from the nightstand before sitting back down. He dabbed the sweat from your face and forehead. Jack grimaced; even through the fabric he could feel how warm you were. He dabbed away the tea that had found its way onto your chin, and noticed that you were looking at him as though he had not constantly been at your side for the past several days.

        “ _Papa?_ ”

        Something searing and vicelike fastened itself around Jack’s chest.

 _No_ , he thought, fighting the urge to sink to the floorboards _. Not anymore_.

       And then there was an onslaught of memories: The roundness of his wife’s belly, the births, the pride; the loss. All the rage and inevitable emptiness. Had he ever truly deserved to be called  _father?_ And what of the now? What if things had been different? Surely at his age he would have been blessed with grandchildren. He could have seen his children’s likeness, his own, and his wife’s in a new generation. And surely…

       Jack looked at you as your eyes grew heavy again. Your lips were too dry, but they also played host to a tiny smile. He blinked, and ran a hand over his beard, and then the nape of his neck. He released a heavy breath. He nodded, and patted your arm as you drifted off. You were there. You needed him; and he resolved to be there for you.


	8. Wayfairing Strangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was the first-ever request I received! A female reader gets in a shootout and Vasquez helps her out.

 

 

 

As you walk down the stairs from the room you rented two nights ago, you take stock of the other people who are sharing the dining room. Mostly the same crowd: the piano player, a few oldsters, and a group of about half a dozen young men, barely old enough to grow whiskers. One of them, you think, is the stable master. This reminds you that you must purchase a fresh horse in the morning. The poor nag you came to town on had been nearly lame.

The Mexican man sitting alone in the corner closest to the door nurses a beer as he watches you descend the stairs. A maroon sash trails from his hips to the floor. He is not hard on the eyes by any stretch of the imagination. However, a pearl handled revolver rests in each of his holsters, and those are the more ardent focus of your attention. He is new, and unlike the other patrons; you recognize him as a potential threat. The weight of your father’s Colt Navy revolver at your side is reassuring.

He turns his attention back to his beer, and you walk to the counter. You catch sight of your reflection in the mirror behind the bar. The men’s clothing you are dressed in for the sake of practicality; the vest, the shirt, the pants. They are all rumpled. There are circles under your eyes and wound on your side that is still healing itches. There is doubt in the back of your mind.

_Weary_ , you think, confessing your fatigue solely to your reflection.  _Not weak_.

The bartender approaches, and you straighten your posture.

“Can I get you somethin’, darlin’?”

The man is doughy, with a face that has been creased by both age and smiles. He is a stark contrast to the woman (Perhaps his wife?) who checked you into your room two nights before. You thought you’d heard her say “It ain’t decent,” as she left you to your room.

You almost say “no,” because you’re not entirely sure what it was you want.

_There’s that word again,_  you think.  _No._

Saying it to the wrong people was what set you on your path.

“Bottle of whiskey, please,” you reply.

He sets an Irish brand on the bar and you pay him for it.

You smile in gratitude, but the flicker of affability is short lived. In the mirror, a man steps up behind you.  He is all too familiar. Bearded, thick-necked. Black hair and watery gray eyes. The green sash. Your stomach drops.

_No, no, no, no_ , you think.

“I’m looking for a woman,” he says, stepping closer than propriety should have allowed.

You uncork the bottle, bring it to your mouth, and tilt it backward, relishing the burn of the liquor before setting it back down on the bar. Though it’s tempting, you deem it unwise to crush the bottle against the man’s face in that moment.

“You can find one for yourself right across the way, Mr. McCready,” you say as you point out the door to the brothel across the street. The fact that two men with green sashes are standing sentry by the door does not escape your notice. “Reasonable rates, too; I hear.”

A deep, humorless rumble emanates from the man’s chest.

“Naw,” he drawls, as he steps closer to you. He is near enough that you can smell him; the scent of equine, sweat, and smoke. “This one’s done some mighty bad things.”

           You hear the activity in the saloon cease, and everything goes quiet.

           “Git on out, now,” McCready says. His voice is low, but clear. “All of you.”

           You risk a glance around to see that he has brooked little argument. The old men leave without complaint. Several of the young men, jaws firmly set, think to be contrary; but the men by the door put palms on their weapons and the boys slink out, too, like scolded curs.

           The Mexican man seems to have simply disappeared.

“That means you, too, ol’ man,” McCready says to the bartender.

           The man behind the bar spares you an apologetic glance before shuffling hurriedly out the front door. You understand. Even as McCready takes your revolver from you, you understand.  

           “You’re alone, little girl,” McCready intones. “You’re surrounded. You just come along quietly with us. Our boss wants you alive. I imagine he wants to make an example of you, but it really makes no nevermind to me.”  

You believe him.

He steps closer, yet; his chest is nearly touching your back. He laughs, and you can feel the heat of his breath on your ear. You can smell the stink of his breath. It is all you can stand.

McCready’s proximity is his undoing.

You slam your left elbow into his nose, and there is a satisfying  _crunch_. He is big and he’s strong, but you’re quick. You reach into your vest. In one smooth motion you spin, Derringer in hand. The  _pop_  of the little gun is a surprise to everybody but you. The round moves slower than most, but it does its job. Blood pools around McCready’s hands as he holds them to his throat, and you use the dying man as a protection as he gurgles his last breath. His men draw, but do not shoot in your direction. You take this opportunity to take your own gun back before turning it on the men who are now running toward you.

BANG. BANG.

You catch one in the temple, and the other in the chest. Their bodies jolt and then drop uselessly to the ground.

Two more men, one badly scarred, the other baby-faced and fresh, rush in the front door. They meet the same end, their green sashes marking them for death in your eyes.

You curse under your breath.

You release McCready’s body, allowing it to slump downward against the bar, before you take his gun. A Peacemaker, you notice as you position yourself behind the bar, pulling back its hammer and cocking your own revolver as well. Two men run in from the back, guns drawn. You dispatch one quickly, but the other fires. It hits you in the left arm and your own shot from the Peacemaker goes wide. Splinters spray outward from where your bullet strikes a railing. You kill him with your next shot from the Navy revolver. He doesn’t slow for a moment. Were it not for the blooming crimson on his shirt, you would have wondered if you hit him at all.

Ignoring the searing pain in your arm, you crouch down on your haunches.

             You take his gun as well and dive behind the bar where you find the barkeeper’s shotgun. A part of you laments that the man had proven so docile. You reholster your own gun before opening the Peacemaker’s cylinder. Five rounds left. You inspect the shotgun, and find two shells within.

There are heavy footfalls and two peals of gunfire in quick succession.

Gun drawn, you bolt upward and aim at the first figure you see. The tall Mexican man stands in your sights on the opposite side of the bar. Two more men in green sashes are dead at his feet.

He balances his twin revolvers in his hands while splaying his fingers outward. You recognize the gesture of peace.

“Sounded like you could use some help,” he explains in a pleasant burr.

You begin to lower your weapon and voice your thanks when –quick as muzzle flare –he shifts his guns in his hands and fires two rounds, each into a new assailant who rushed in behind you. You return the favor seconds later when another man runs in from the back. You hit this marauder in the shoulder before your apparent ally spins on his heels and finishes the job.

Straight back and long limbs, he turns to face you again. His dark eyes are alight with lethal intellect.

Both of you hear voices shouting outside. If you’re going to move from your current location, you know that now is the time.

“Upstairs! My room! Now!”

“Well,” he says, flashing a grin. “This is sudden.”

           Adrenaline pumping, you bark out a ridiculous squawk of a laugh and roll your eyes before grabbing the shotgun beneath the bar. You run up the stairs, somehow confident that your back is covered by your new companion.

Once in your room, you risk lighting several candles. You both take time to reload while steering clear of your room’s single window.

You take your knife from your belt and tear away a strip of the bedclothes to use as a makeshift bandage. You fail in tying it several times.

“Here, let me,” he says, noticing your frustration with the bandage.

You allow him to approach you, and he takes the strip in nimble hands; he ties it quickly, and tightly. You purse your lips, but make no complaint otherwise.

“Sorry,” he says.

“S’okay,” you say as you pull your sleeve back down.

“None of my business,” he says in a pleasant burr. “But what did you do that made them so angry with you?”

His brows are raised with curiosity rather than accusation.

“Nothing nobody didn’t have coming to them.”

His smile fades and then returns, even more brilliant. Whether or not you are telling the truth, this seems to be good enough for him. You realize this man loves to fight. You are uncertain if this is born of a genuine affection for violent deeds, or if he, too, has become accustomed to being hunted. You can’t deny that, within yourself, you’ve noticed this same inclination because of the latter. It has lately been the only thing in your life.

You fasten your ammunition belt around your hips, and put on your hat. You return the Derringer to where it had been hidden, and pull your father’s old coat around yourself.

Both of you are ready.

“Go for the ones with green sashes,” you tell him, bobbing your head toward the window, as to indicate your intended path of egress.

“They’ll be the ones shooting at us, yes?”

You smile at this before silently opening the window.

“What do I call you?”

“Vasquez,” he says after a moment.

“Thank you, Vasquez.”

Instead of offering your own name, you duck out onto the walkway. Vasquez follows.

The shotgun you cradle in your arms is not silent for long. The two men who walk around the corner barely have time to raise their weapons before you and Vasquez each dispatch one. Your newly acquired shotgun sends one over the railing like a ragdoll; he is a corpse before he hits the ground. From below, there are raised voices. You and Vasquez share the briefest of glances before necessity spurs you both into action. You follow him to the stairs as bullets and shards of wood spray upward. Even amid the chaos and darkness, the elegance of his long, fluid gait is not lost on you.

Vasquez shoots the two men at the bottom of the stairway before turning his attention to the men who are advancing on you from beneath the walkway. You get to the bottom and see that one of the men Vasquez shot is raising a six-gun in Vasquez’s direction. You kick it away from him and make a bloody ruin of what had been a handsome face before. You drop the shotgun at his side.

You take the Peacemaker from where it was tucked into your belt, and draw your Colt. You aim at the men who are coming from the back of the building, but a few more are cut toward you through the alleyway. You wheel around on them, positioning yourself back-to-back with Vasquez. One. Two. Three. You make quick work of them.

Behind you, you feel Vasquez falter.

“ _Chingado!_ ”

You turn to find that he’s been hit in the leg.

Moving from behind Vasquez, you stride toward the two men who are standing no more than twenty feet away. You hit one in the chest. The other takes rounds to the shoulder, stomach and eye before he goes to the ground, seemingly folding in on himself.

The one you hit in the chest is, somehow, still on his feet. He is dying. He knows it. You know it. But he is still standing.

You level your father’s gun with his head and let out a cry, primal and unbidden, before pulling the trigger.

Everything has gone still. Your guns are still at the ready, but no one else comes.

It takes you longer than a moment to return to yourself, but when you do, it is to the sound of spent casings jangling to the ground. You find Vasquez leaning against a post, reloading.

“You good?” you ask nodding at his left thy.

“Oh, yes. Just a graze,” he says with a smile and a shrug.

The two of you cautiously walk toward the front of the saloon. Vasquez approaches a pale, mottled stallion and digs into one of the saddle bags and withdraws some fabric that he uses as a bandage. He swings gracefully into the saddle, takes the reins, and pats the horse’s neck.

“Ride with me?” he asks, taking the silver pendant at the base of his throat between his fingers.

“Yes,” you tell him.

Together, you head north for a time.


	9. Streets We Call the Zoo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Seven visit the city. Not so much a story, as it is a few scenes interwoven with one another: Faraday is politically correct in his own way, Vasquez gets a job offer; and Jack, Billy and Goodnight meet with an old acquaintance of Goody’s.

 

 

 

“Hey, Red.”

Red Harvest turned at the mention of his name, or at least the English incarnation thereof. It was Faraday. Red raised an eyebrow by way of a greeting, and Faraday joined him at his side.

“Enjoying your time in the city?” Faraday asked, gesturing to their surroundings with a liquor bottle that he seemed to have conjured from nothing. The amber liquid within sloshed.

Red looked around at the buildings that crowded his lines of sight. No doubt their construction required ingenuity, but Red found no inspiration in the high, immovable structures.

“Didn’t you have a poker game?” Red asked, giving no real reply.

Faraday clucked his tongue before he struck a match and lit a cigarette, declining to give an answer of his own.

“You look…crestfallen,” Red said.

“You,” Faraday said, exhaling smoke that he attempted not to choke on because of Red’s observation, “have been spending too much time around Goodnight.”

There was a flicker of a smile on Red Harvest’s face, and Faraday realized something that he supposed already knew: Red Harvest, stoic warrior, smiled more than most people would give him credit for.

“Smartass.”

* * *

           Vasquez recognized the practicality of shaving, but willingly allowing a blade to be put to his throat was not something he had thought to prepare himself for upon entering the city. Just a precaution, Sam had said; though Vasquez was puzzled as to why he couldn’t just shave himself. As the barber used the razor to remove the lather, along with Vasquez’s beard, the outlaw glanced at Sam, who was reclined in the chair next to his, perfectly at ease and smiling at Vasquez’s apparent misgivings.

           “Vittorio hasn’t done anyone in yet,” Sam assured him.

           “Good to know,” Vasquez said, taking pains not to move his mouth more than necessary.

           There was a quiet smile on the old, Italian man’s face. He worked quickly and efficiently, humming a little tune all the while. No sooner had Vasquez relaxed than the barber completed his task and handed Vasquez a mirror. The reflective surface was impressively, brightly clean; its handle filigreed. Vasquez felt the new smoothness of his face, and smiled at his reflection despite himself.

           He stood and handed the mirror back.

           “You look younger,” Vittorio commented.

            _More innocent? Less like a wanted man?_  Vasquez wondered.

           Vittorio looked from Vasquez to Sam. The clandestine glance that the barber and warrant officer shared did not go unnoticed by Vasquez. Sam nodded, answering an unspoken question.

           “I have it on good authority,” Vittorio said, all jocularity returning to him, “that our mutual acquaintance left town just this morning.”

           “ _Grazi,_ ” Sam said, as he shook Vittorio’s hand and gave him a sum that far exceeded the cost of two shaves.

* * *

           “Naw, that boy never did have the sense God gave paste,” Goodnight said as he slapped his knee and laughed at the story their host had just told them.

           Billy found himself smiling as he placed his cup back on its saucer. He, Goodnight and Jack sat in the parlor, sharing in a pot of tea with Madame Ophelia; or, as she preferred to be called by friends: Gloria.

           “No, no he didn’t,” Gloria agreed, straightening her posture and folding her hands on the dark skirt of her dress. She smiled a comely smile.

Her voice had more than a touch of the South, and she was theatrical. Billy had decided that he liked Gloria the instant he’d met her.

“Any friend of Goodnight’s is certainly a friend of mine,” the illusionist had said upon their first meeting.

She turned her attention to Jack.

“Mr. Horne, I must beg your forgiveness,” Gloria said when she noticed Jack’s cup was sitting empty. “I’ve been a lacking hostess. Can I offer you more tea?”

Jack looked from Gloria, to his tea cup, then back to Gloria as though he were surprised he was being addressed.

“That’d be nice, ma’am,” he said. “And there’s nothing to forgive.”

Gloria stood and poured more tea for Jack, who gave her his profuse thanks. She replenished everyone’s dessert plates and then stood behind Jack, placing a hand on his shoulder and telling him that if their time in the city allowed it, he would have to see one of her shows.

“I would insist on providing the tickets, of course,” she said with a fond squeeze of Jack’s shoulder.

Billy and Goodnight shared a furtive smile.

* * *

             Faraday had been politely asked to leave the game of poker he’d entered.  _Politely_ , he scoffed as he lit another cigarette. No guns, not even an insult; just the statement that cheating would not be tolerated, and the well-mannered suggestion that perhaps he ought to remove himself from the game. There were plenty of impolite things Faraday had looked forward to doing upon arriving in the city; but here he was, walking along aimlessly with Red Harvest. Faraday was becoming certain that Red would pace the entire city for the duration of The Seven’s stay.

           Red paused at an art vendor and regarded a painting of a ship on the ocean.  _Nice boat, but it’s a little drab for my tastes_ , Faraday thought as he wondered what Red’s assessment of the painting was. He was about to ask when he caught sight of a man across the street who was looking intently at Red. No fear. Curiosity, maybe. Above all, Faraday recognized the look of someone looking to exploit another. The man apparently took Faraday’s notice as an invitation to join them.

“Hello! I’m Paulson. James Paulson,” the man said, all good cheer and smiles. “Does your man speak English?”

           Hackles raised, Faraday narrowed his gaze at the man, and made no reply.

“I wonder,” the man said, “If you could relay to your…companion that I may have a job for him.”

           Mousy hair, a well-tailored, cream colored suit; and an accent that, as far as Faraday could tell, was purely an affectation. Joshua looked at the newcomer, and could not remember ever disliking someone so immediately. He took an exaggerated drag on his cigarette and wondered if he pretended not to hear the man, if he would go away. No such luck. The man continued to look at Faraday expectantly, then began to repeat himself.

           He blathered about anthropological exhibits and social trends. Faraday exhaled and blew smoke in the direction of the man who was either too stupid, or too persistent to care. Hell, maybe it was both.

           “He could be a performer; an actor, as it were,” Paulson continued as he blinked the smoke from his eyes, and continued smiling.

           Faraday found his hands wandering toward where Ethel and Maria would usually have been situated, but he reminded himself that his ladies would have to wait to be picked up on his way out of town.  _Vexed_ , Faraday was certain that was the right word. He cast a glance over at Red Harvest, who looked back at him, brows upraised, as though he were awaiting a translation Joshua damn well knew he didn’t need.      

           “He ain’t interested,” Faraday said.

* * *

           “An interesting idea,” Vasquez said as he followed Sam into a restaurant called Liza’s. “But there’s still a bounty on my head.”

           “Matters less than you might think,” Sam said, setting his hat on a corner table by the bar, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

           Vasquez followed suit as he observed his surroundings. The restaurant was small, but well-lit and meticulously cared for. There were few patrons, but in the middle of the day, he supposed that was to be expected.

           “No particular hurry,” Sam said. “Take time and think about it.”

Vasquez ran a thumb over his smooth jawline and nodded, feeling more sullen than he probably ought to have.

“You would be a good boss,” Vasquez considered aloud, finding that he had to force joviality into his voice.            

“Naw,” Sam said, shaking his head as though Vasquez had gravely misunderstood him. “Partner.”

777

           “How did you meet?” Jack asked, looking from Gloria, to Goodnight, then back again when there was a lull in conversation.

           Goodnight and Gloria were nearly perfect reflections of one another when they set down their cups and smiled while looking at their laps. Perhaps, Billy thought, the telling of the story of a gala and horribly misjudged drink placement was inevitable in new company. Just as well, he could stand to hear it again.

           “Well,” Goodnight began, looking to Gloria.

           With a nod, Gloria encouraged him to continue.

           “We actually grew up in the same town,” Goodnight said. “She was this great beauty-”

           “ _Was,_ Mr. Robicheaux?” Gloria asked, feigning offense.

           Goodnight paused with his teacup half way to his mouth when he realized his  _faux pas_. Billy smiled at this, and Gloria (lovely, lovely Gloria whose golden hair was only beginning to fade to white at her temples) allowed Goodnight to flounder for only a moment before continuing the conversational tack.

           “We did grow up in the same town. And believe it or not, Goodnight was said to be quite the charmer.”

           There was laughter, but after it subsided the two southerners became more somber. Jack and Billy followed suit.

           “My family moved.”

           “We didn’t see each other again until the second year of the war.”

           Gloria gazed down at the tabletop.

           “You were a Confederate sharpshooter,” Gloria said.

           “And you were a Billy Yank spy,” Goodnight finished.

           “I was, indeed.”

           This was not the story of the gala that Billy remembered.

           There was no tone of betrayal in Goodnight’s voice, and there was no inflection of pride in Gloria’s. The former soldier and the former spy sat side by side, reflecting on their past selves. The silence might have become uncomfortable if Gloria hadn’t broken it.

           “Never got anything out of you, though,” she said.

           “And I never told anyone your secret.”

           “No, you didn’t.”

           “Always meant to ask you why,” Goodnight said. “Don’t suppose there’s any harm in asking now.”

           Gloria finished her tea, and pondered her answer a moment before replying.

           “No, no harm,” she said before lapsing into silence long enough that Billy began to wonder if she was going to answer.

“I wish I could say it was because of some sense of altruism on my part,” she began again. “But that wouldn’t be entirely true. No, there was some money to be had; but most of all I liked the danger that came along with it. Even just the thought of danger, really. Didn’t matter much to me if it was for Johnny Reb or Billy Yank.”

           The company of four sat in silence, and the parlor became a place of the past as they each retreated into their own private histories. Gloria tapped her fingers on her chin, something her mother had always declared unbecoming. Jack nibbled the remainder of a madeleine. Goodnight stared at the opposite wall, and Billy’s fingertips worried at the hem of the tablecloth.

           “What time is your show tonight?” Jack asked.

* * *

           “He’s not some performing animal,” Faraday said to Paulson.

           Faraday’s words were becoming heated, Red Harvest realized. The man could be petty, and rude, and overeager to pick fights, but it was rare that Red heard genuine anger color Faraday’s words.

           Paulson ran a hand over his goatee, and began to say something else, but Faraday cut him off.

           “I’ve seen  _exhibits_  like yours. I wasn’t impressed.”

           “I just-”

           Faraday rounded on the man.

           “I don’t think you get it.” There was venom in Faraday’s voice. “I said-”

           Red Harvest chose that moment to step in, lest there was actual trouble.

           “He’s right,” Red said. “I’m not interested.”

           Paulson’s eyes went wide, and his mouth fell open a fraction of an inch.

           “C’mon, Josh,” Red said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Let’s go.

The contact was uncharacteristic of Red, and it seemed to bring Faraday back to himself. It wasn’t until Red and Faraday left, with their backs to Paulson, and turned a corner onto another street, that the two shared a smile.

           There was something underneath the layers of civility. A scent, a sound. Or perhaps it was the absence of something. Red Harvest couldn’t put a finger on it. That elusive something made him long that much more for the plains. He followed Faraday onto the porch of a nameless bar, and stood next to him whenever Faraday propped himself up against the wall and lit a cigarette. The Irishman was still stewing about something. Red didn’t ask. He figured Faraday would tell him if he wanted to.

           “This trip’s been a bust,” Faraday said, then pulled a face, indicating that that wasn’t exactly what he meant to say. “I mean…Hell, Red. I’ve seen that sort of thing before…like what that jackass was talkin’ about.”

           Faraday shook his head before continuing.

           “Never really thought anything of it back then, I guess.”

           Red nodded his understanding. Since Rose Creek, they’d all changed in some way, or another; Faraday wasn’t an exception.

* * *

Liquor was doing nothing to quell the apprehension Vasquez was trying to hide. Sam had always been fair to him. Nothing would change between himself and the bounty hunter if he accepted the partnership.  _Probably wouldn’t change if I didn’t, either._ The thought did bring him some consolation.

“Like I said,” Sam told him. “There’s no hurry. I have a meeting here with the proprietor. You should get something to eat; go see the city.”

_Always working, huh?_  Vasquez thought as he moved his heads slowly from side to side.

He began to say something. He wasn’t sure what –certainly not a definitive answer, but he found that Sam’s attention was drawn by movement behind the bar. Vasquez followed Sam’s gaze to the woman who stood there, talking to the bartender.

Her long, dark curls were tied loosely behind her. Vasquez couldn’t guess her age, (a little younger than Sam, maybe?) but he could see no flaw in her dark skin; and though there was a stern set to her jaw, her mouth (in Vasquez’s less than humble opinion) was made for smiling. He wondered if that was Liza.

“Time for that meeting,” Sam said as he stood and pushed in his chair, excusing himself.

“With Liza?” Vasquez asked, jesting and cracking a grin.

“With Liza,” Sam said with a nod.

Sam’s expression was curt, but humor of some sort played reservedly behind Sam’s eyes before he turned and walked over to the bar.

When the woman –Liza –caught sight of Sam, she confirmed Vasquez’s theory. Her smile was bright and warm. And Sam Chisolm was its sole recipient. Sam took her hand and brushed a thumb over her knuckles. The two strolled out of sight, and Vasquez watched them go, wondering how long he should wait before picking his jaw up from the floor.


	10. Cheaper Tricks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader-Insert. An imagine with Faraday wherein he does a card trick and asks the reader to dinner. Ubiquitous? Yes. Fun? Also yes.

 

 

The stable area was hardly bustling; and your gaze wandered while you were waiting for your horse to get reshod.  Above, a bird glided hypnotically in a wide circle.

Movement in the nearest corral caught your eye. A bay stallion tossed his head, whinnied, and pranced. It seemed you weren’t the only one seeking to rid yourself of a sense of ennui. Your feet carried you over, and you leaned on the fence that contained the animal. Spirited, sleek, well-bred. You smiled as he took another lap around the enclosure. You could feel his hoof beats as he passed. Impulsively, you attempt to beckon him over, but an admonishment from behind you gave you pause.

“That horse is a killer, you know?”

Brows bunched, you turned to see a man walking toward you with an easy gait. He hooked his thumbs in his belt as he approached. You straightened your stance and took the measure of him.  He was tall, but stalky. Your eyes roamed from the guns at his hips to his face. You admitted to yourself that it wasn’t entirely unpleasing, especially when he smiled so winningly.

“You are?” You asked as you straightened, and squared your shoulders.

 _All kinds of trouble_ , you mentally answered for him.

“I’m the rider that goes with that horse.”

You suppress your own smile.

“Alright, then. What’s the horse’s name?”

“That, there is Jack. Won him in a poker game.”

“Is that right?”

“Full house,” he said with an emphatic nod. “Threes and jacks.”

You turn your attention back to the horse. He had since made his way over to you.

“Hey, boy,” The stranger said as he affectionately petted Jack under the chin.  

“You wanna pet him?” he asked as he paused and looked at you.

Though you’d just been told about the horse’s predisposition toward violence, you couldn’t resist. Reaching a hand up, you took delight in the warm, velvety feel of the horse’s muzzle. Jack huffed out a breath onto you.

“He likes you,” the man said. “He’s got good taste. Like me.”

He looked at you out of the corner of his eye to see if you’d taken offense, but you smiled despite yourself.

“There a point to all this braggin’, Mister…”

“Faraday,” he said at last as he scratched his russet beard. “Joshua.”

“Well, Mister Faraday?”

He narrowed his gaze at you and held his lower lip between his teeth.

“Well, it usually leads up to a card trick,” he admitted as the corners of his mouth turned downward in an expression of entirely disingenuous self-deprecation.

“A  _trick?”_

He pulled a deck of cards from the left pocket of his vest, and you decided in that moment that you would let yourself be charmed.

“Some might call it magic,” he said as he shuffled the deck with an air of mysticism.

For his part, Jack shook his black mane and walked away, as though he had grown bored with you and Faraday.

“Some might call it devious.”

“Alright, fair enough,” Faraday said as he dovetailed the deck of cards and held them out to you. “Why don’t you pick a card, though? Just for fun?”

His gaze was expectant, and the quirk of his eyebrows was (you grudgingly admitted to yourself) endearing. You looked from him to the cards, and then unceremoniously selected one.

“Okay, memorize the card.”

It was an unremarkable five of clubs.

Faraday held out the rest of the deck and you replaced the card. Without taking his eyes off of yours, he shuffled the deck. He cut them singlehandedly before moving half the stack to his other hand and continuing to shuffle.

“If I find your card,” he said, “you’ve gotta let me take you to dinner.”

All showmanship and dexterity, Faraday continued to rearrange the cards as he awaited your answer.

“Fair enough,” you tell him, mimicking his words with a nod and a smile.

Faraday made a show of sifting through the cards, and the furrows in his brow deepened as each one passed by.

“That’s funny,” he said. “Can’t seem to find it.”

It was not the conclusion you were expecting.

“Oh, wait,” Faraday said, smiling anew, and stepping closer. “Here it is!”

He reached his hand behind your head. You heard the  _flit_  of a card, and felt the brush of his hand on your neck as he brought the five of clubs into view.

“Bravo,” you said with a laugh, as you found yourself taking a step closer to him. “Over dinner, you’ll have to show me how you did that.”


	11. A Health to the Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After saving another town, The Seven go drinking together.

 

 

 

            In the blood-red light of the evening, the dust settled, and The Seven reconvened in the center of the town. They’d made quick work of the twenty-two bandits they’d been hired to deal with.

            “God _damn_ ,” came Faraday’s breathless, but ebullient voice.

            Jack cast a brief glance of disapproval toward Faraday before pulling his hatchet from a corpse’s chest.

            “I doubt they were going to heaven, anyway,” Faraday justified, making no attempt to look contrite.

           Jack smiled at that despite himself.

            “Welcome back,” Vasquez intervened, clapping a fond hand on Faraday’s shoulder.

            “Good to be back,” Faraday said.

            It was the truth. His wounds had healed better than anyone would have guessed. There were scars and a limp, to be sure. But he was alive; and damned if he didn’t still have it.

            “An auspicious return,” Goodnight said as he approached, his rifle cradled in the crook of his arm.

            Faraday saw the nearly imperceptible nod and smile that Billy gave him by way of a greeting and his own grin became broader.

            Sam stood on the veranda of the saloon, reloading his weapon.

            Faraday watched as the woman who had hired them (an old contact of Sam’s) stepped out of the saloon and stood next to Sam. Several men followed in her wake. The others who had emerged from cover stopped and looked to her. Approval touched her stern features at this.

           “Mister Purdy?” she said, her long, wrinkled fingers clasped below her chest. “See to it Mister Chisolm and his men have all the drink they could possibly want tonight.”

           “Yes ma’am,” said the stout, wildly whiskered man to her left before he bustled back into the saloon.

           Faraday saw Sam dip his head, attempting to hide his smile behind the brim of his hat. Sam, Faraday noticed, did seem to have some singularly interesting acquaintances.

           Both pay and drink? The woman clearly enjoyed rewarding her friends. And those who crossed her and her town? Well, Faraday could see the result of that as well.

           “Doctor?”

          “Ma’am?”

          “Make sure that that young man’s arm is cared for.”

          Faraday saw her nod in his direction, and did not notice until that moment that Red Harvest was standing behind him, a laceration on his right bicep. (Red didn’t seem to pay the wound any mind.)

          “Oh, you’re still drinking,” Faraday said with certitude as he levelled an index finger at the young Comanche.

          Red’s expression was contrary, but he merely shrugged his shoulders.

          “Good to have you back,” Red said, his voice brusque, but sincere.

          He walked away as quietly as he’d arrived.

* * *

Red brushed his bandage, and frowned. He would apply his own salve later, if only for his own satisfaction. The doctor had efficiently treated the wound. He’d alternated between concerned tutting and extolling The Seven for their virtues as saviors. Red had nodded courteously where conversation had dictated, but was just as happy to be out of the doctor’s company.

The elation of battle had faded all too quickly. Red Harvest walked down the center of the street. Night had fallen. The bodies had been removed, but some blood stains still lingered darkly on the ground.  Those men would soon fill unmarked graves, and Red would continue on with the rest of The Seven. He stopped in front of the saloon, pondering his plans for the very immediate future.

The outskirts of town suited him much more than the confines of its building. Despite this, he climbed the steps and looked in the window. Red had grown accustomed to being on the outside looking in. In this instance, though, he knew it wasn’t a necessity. He opened the door and walked into the well-lit bar.

“…and he couldn’t hit the broad side of a  _barn!_ ”

Goodnight’s Cajun drawl greeted Red. War stories.  

               The other Six were the only patrons in the bar, much to Red’s relief. He nodded his head in greeting, and the rest raised their voices and bottles in return. Faraday wasted no time in ambling across the room and shoving a bottle into Red’s hands. Clear glass. Clear liquid.

           “This,” Faraday intoned after a drag on his cigarette, “is this odd little town’s own brew.”

           “What is it?”

           Faraday put an arm over Red’s shoulder and chuckled while leaning in conspiratorially.

           “I have no idea.”

           Putting his cigarette back in his mouth, Faraday clanked his own bottle against Red’s and watched, expectantly. Without taking his eyes off of Faraday, Red tilted the bottle back and put it to his lips. The liquid burned, but had no real taste. Red refused to cough, and cleared his throat instead.

           “The more you drink, the less it burns,” Vasquez said, offering some fraternal advice.

           There was a collective nod. Red took another swig, testing the theory. He followed Faraday over to the rest of the group and leaned against the wall while his companions sat around the table.

           “Worst shot I’ve ever seen…” Faraday began.

           Red listened as Faraday told the story of a fight that went spectacularly wrong for one gunslinger. He found himself smiling and he took another drink. It did, in fact, burn less.

           Billy regarded the other six in attendance. All together again. Faraday was Billy’s antithesis, but Billy would be lying if he said it didn’t please him to have the seventh member of their group back. He supposed it was, after a fashion, a miracle. Goody orated another story about flawed shooting, after which Jack spoke up.

           “My wife,” Jack began. “Now, she was a real good shot.”

           Jack looked down at the table, as though wondering if he should continue.

           “She would have liked all of you,” Jack said softly as he nodded to himself. “Well, except for maybe Faraday.”

           Billy felt Goodnight’s hand clap him on the back, albeit, harder than necessary. Billy laughed and watched the rest of the group do the same. Jack tossed his head back. Though the joke was at Faraday’s expense, he was nonetheless doubled over in his seat. Sam’s smile was broader than Billy had seen it lately. Vasquez’s shoulders shook; his eyes danced. Red Harvest chuckled with a reserved rumble as he sat down next to Billy.  

           “Your wife sounds like a fine lady,” Goodnight said when the laughter began to subside.

           “She was,” Jack said.

           “To Missus Horne,” Sam toasted; the rest of The Seven raised their bottles and then summarily drank from them.

           Billy took a modest pull from his bottle then set it back on the table before taking out another cigarette and lighting it. His head spun pleasantly and he could feel heat rising in his cheeks.

           Sam set his bottle down next, then Goodnight. Billy couldn’t help but notice how Goodnight’s eyebrows arched higher than usual. It marked the southerner as being intoxicated just as surely as slurred speech or uneven footsteps would have. Billy’s features quirked with good humor when he saw that Faraday, Vasquez, Jack and Red Harvest were all still drinking and staring at each other defiantly. Red set his bottle down; a surprising portion of the liquor was gone from it. He dipped his head in defeat, but he laughed and shook his head as he did. Not even Red Harvest’s fearsome war paint could prevent him from appearing youthful in that moment.

           Jack put his bottle down with a thump and he slapped his knee.

           Bubbles continued to rise to the bottoms of Vasquez and Faraday’s bottles, and five voices goaded them on until both men put their bottles down hard on the table and gasped for air. Faraday leaned backward in his chair, and Vasquez leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table.

           “Who won, Billy?” Faraday asked.

           “It was a tie,” Billy proclaimed as his cigarette bobbed up and down.

           “Aw, bullshit,” Faraday groused with a lopsided grin as he half-heartedly struck the tabletop with the palm of his hand.

           More laughter.

           “All things considered, Vasquez,” Faraday said as he nudged the Mexican man with a lazy knee. “I’m glad Sam didn’t have to shoot you.”

           “Me, too,” Vasquez said as he looked at Sam out of the corner of his eye, choosing not to dwell on whether or not Sam considered him a valued member of their little rabble despite his status as a wanted criminal.

           “Hey,” Sam said, the smile on his face contradicting the seriousness of his tone.

Sam raised his bottle, and took a long drink. The rest of The Seven followed suit.

“But really,” Faraday continued. “I mean, it has to be pretty easy for a bounty hunter-“

“Warrant officer.”

“Right, that’s what I said…”

Chuckles all around.

“…to choose between  _dead_  and  _alive_.”

Sam shrugged and took another drink, his gaze finding a spot in the middle distance. He thought to make mention of seeing justice done and due process; but occasionally, if he was being honest, it all rang a bit hollow.

“There was this one time I was after this politician’s son,” Sam said, finding it necessary to turn the words over in his mind before voicing them. “Skipped bail. I was urged to bring him back alive, no matter what. But it wasn’t too difficult.”

“No?” Faraday asked; his brows raised in besotted dubiousness.

           “No,” Sam said. “Found him hiding under a prostitute’s bed, the next town over.”

           Vasquez’s forehead met the table as he laughed. His cheeks ached from smiling so much.

            _Much more of that stuff, and you won’t be able to feel your face_ , he dutifully, but drunkenly assured himself.

           It was no matter, he realized. If he came to have any regrets about the night of drinking (The way the alcohol sloshed in his stomach, he guessed he would.), it wouldn’t be because he couldn’t trust all the men he was with. He could let his guard down. He could celebrate. Finding himself a passenger in his own body, he sighed deeply, contentedly.

           “Sounds like a member of a gang I ran with out of New Mexico,” Vasquez said.

           His smile grew when he realized some of his words were missing their edges.

           “The way I heard it, he begged the bounty…warrant officer…that tracked him down, to take him alive. But then he tried to run and got gunned down.”

           “How,” Faraday asked as he squinted at Vasquez, “is that anything like Sam’s story?”

           Before Vasquez could formulate an answer, a snort came from the other side of the table.

           “They were both idiots,” Red Harvest observed.

           This began an all new volley of laughter, and it was some time before it subsided into happy sighs that tasted of liquor. Conversation didn’t pick back up. Each of The Seven stared ahead of them, occasionally blinking with bleary eyes. They all sipped sporadically and reclined, languid and quite inebriated.

           Shoulder to shoulder, Goodnight and Billy shuffled out after wishing everyone a pleasant evening. Jack stood, using the back of his chair to steady himself. He nodded his goodbyes before exiting the saloon in a line that meandered far more than he would have liked.

           Vasquez stood next. He smiled and nodded at Sam, squeezed Faraday’s shoulder and then walked over to Red Harvest, who somehow managed to look both delighted and ill.

           Vasquez extended a hand.

           Red Harvest looked up at him as though he was going to argue. He clearly thought better of it, though, and allowed Vasquez to haul him up.

           “Come on,  _manito_ ,” Vasquez said as he slung one of Red Harvest’s arms over his own shoulders.

           Sam and Faraday watched the two go, and passed time in the quiet of the otherwise empty bar.

           Faraday struck a match, lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply before breathing the smoke out through his nose and closing his eyes.

           “What’s next?”

           Sam chuckled. It was a pleasant sound, Faraday decided.

           “Sleep,” Sam replied as he put his hat back on and stood.

           The reply was frustratingly cryptic. But that was just Sam, Faraday supposed. The older man started toward the door without so much as a hitch in his step, and Faraday wondered if Sam actually drank himself sober.

           “Welcome back, Faraday,” Sam said before disappearing.


	12. The Moon Was Just a Sliver Back Then

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something I wrote before I officially started my blog. Faraday has misgivings about rejoining the rest of The Seven.

 

 

Joshua Faraday’s convalescence had been a long one. But now that it was at its end, he felt something so foreign to him that it took him time (and a few rounds of whiskey) to grasp.  _Hesitation_ , he realized; though he would not, for any amount of money, have confessed this to anyone.

He and Vasquez were leaving Rose Creek the next day. A two day’s ride to the East would reunite them with the rest of The Seven. He should be happy; he knew that. Now, sitting and drinking in what had become his regular seat in the corner of the Cullen Saloon (formerly the Imperial Saloon), he absently ran his thumb over the scar that trailed from his left temple down to his jawline. All things considered, it could have been much, much worse. He was lucky, or –as Jack insisted –blessed. In the back of his mind, Faraday wondered if people were allotted a particular amount of luck. If so, had his survival of Rose Creek used it all up? Was he like some dry, old well? 

_Obsolescence._

The word stuck in Faraday’s mind. Goodnight hadn’t taken as long to heal as Faraday, but the Angel of Death had –whether Faraday appreciated it or not –strengthened the younger man’s vocabulary. Faraday ran the word’s syllables through his mind at varying speeds and emphases until the word became a meaningless jumble. Faraday chuckled to himself, and it set his head spinning. While it was far from being an unpleasant sensation, he felt warmer than the cool night should have allowed. Too much, too soon, he realized as he poured another round into the tin cup the bartender had provided. This was the most he had imbibed at one time since before the battle for Rose Creek.

He noticed a woman across the room eyeing him. In the months after Rose Creek had been rebuilt, and the mine reopened, the town had seen an influx of citizens. No doubt she was one of them. Doe-eyed, with skin that she had taken care to keep from the sun. All soft curves, she flashed him a smile. Purity that would allow itself to be charmed for a price. There was something behind her smile, though. It was not demure, or coquettish in the least.

 _Survival instinct_ , he decided.

He couldn’t guess whether or not it was the whiskey that was molding his perception, or something else. Nevertheless, he used his cup to break eye contact. The alcohol hadn’t even ceased to burn before he refilled the cup and took another swig.

Faraday pulled out the deck of cards that had been nestled in his right breast pocket, and shuffled them, delighting himself with their flutter. He laid out a game of solitaire (something he felt he’d done entirely too much of lately), and let the activity of the saloon go on around him.

“There you are,” came a familiar, accented voice.

Vasquez walked across the floor, tall, relaxed, and smiling, to where Faraday was seated.

“Been in your cups, huh?” He phrased it as a question, but Vasquez didn’t have to ask. He set his hat on the table, then, not bothering to wait for an invitation; he pulled up a chair and sat across from his inebriated companion.

Faraday looked up at Vasquez, blinked his grey eyes owlishly, and then looked back down at the cards as though he were reading a fortune and not playing a game. From the riot of suits, numbers and faces, the profile of the jack of spades stared up at him.

_What play was next?_

Faraday scrubbed a calloused hand over his face before propping his chin on his palm. He slapped the cards that remained in the deck down on the table. It was needlessly loud, but no one seemed to pay it any mind. He picked up his cup, and tossed its contents back before placing his chin on his hand again.

“You know,” Vasquez said, noting that he was being very deliberately ignored. “You keep that up, and there won’t be any whiskey left to take with us tomorrow.”

“Mmph?” Faraday replied without even the courtesy of an upward glance.

Vasquez narrowed his dark eyes at Faraday. When Faraday opted not to join the conversation, Vasquez took the bottle and took a princely drink for himself. Faraday looked up at this, his intoxication muddling the look of annoyance on his face.

“You  _do_  want to leave. Don’t you?” Vasquez pried in as nonchalant a manner as he could.

Faraday reached for the bottle, but found that it was held tightly in Vasquez’s grip. He refrained from attempting to wrestle the bottle away even though Vasquez’s expression dared him to try.

“Real mature,” Faraday muttered before leaning back in his chair and stretching his right leg outward beneath the table, barking out a harsh laugh instead of wincing. 

Vasquez took another pull on the bottle before setting it back down within Faraday’s reach.

“You didn’t answer the question,” Vasquez pointed out.

“You…” Faraday trailed off, no pithy retort forthcoming.

Vasquez reclined in his chair as well, unconsciously mimicking Faraday’s posture.

The two shared the remainder of the bottle.

“You don’t have to come with me tomorrow if you don’t want,” Vasquez said, stopping just shy of offering to stay, too. In truth, Vasquez found Faraday’s uncharacteristic silence worrying. “You can take longer saying your goodbyes. There will always be other jobs. Sam and the others will understand.”

“Already said my goodbyes; and I don’t need more time,” Faraday said. His words were softened by alcohol, but they were no less resolute. “Just don’t want to hold you all up, is all.”

Vasquez exhaled a puff of smoke; the sweet scent of tobacco hung heavily in the air about them.

“Goodnight didn’t hold us up. Billy didn’t hold us up. Jack didn’t either. Why would you?”

“Well, I have this limp now,” Faraday said, gesturing toward his right leg.

Complete shit; and they both knew it.

“Not to…” Vasquez moved his head from sided, pondering what words to use, “…make light of your pain, but so do Goodnight, Billy and Jack. You can still ride; you can still shoot. What difference does it make? You’re still you, are you not?”

The pair lapsed into an uneasy silence.

Vasquez drummed his long fingers on the table top.

Faraday, perhaps a tad spitefully, reasoned that Vasquez was unused to staying in one place for too long, and that was the only reason he was eager to be on their way.

Faraday looked at Vasquez. If he had put money on whether or not Vasquez would stay with the group after their engagement at Rose Creek, Faraday would have lost a substantial amount of money. The Mexican man had stayed until Goodnight, Billy, and Jack were well enough to travel. Then they had all left Faraday to his recovery in Rose Creek. A week ago, Vasquez had returned to take Faraday with him. Upon his return, Vasquez had sported a wound from, Faraday guessed, a bullet graze as well as a black eye. Vasquez had made no mention of the events that lead to their infliction, though. Faraday wondered if Sam had had a good reason for sending Vasquez back.

“What if I don’t love it anymore?”

Vasquez paused, his cigar halfway to his mouth. He knew implicitly what Faraday meant by “it.” The running. The fighting. The risk.  _Life_. Vasquez had little else to compare the lifestyle to, and was, for better or worse, loath to seriously contemplate any alternatives.

Vasquez chuckled and scratched his beard before taking another drag. Faraday knew that Vasquez was a jovial person, but he also knew the outlaw was not above using that good nature to mask his own discomfort.

“Unless that explosion knocked some sense into you, I don’t think you have to worry about that.”

Faraday smiled lopsidedly at this, gathered his cards, and shuffled them before fantailing them and presenting the deck to Vasquez. Vasquez looked from the cards to Faraday, who peered at him with besotted expectation.

“Jesus,” Vasquez said as he played his part and drew a card without letting Faraday see which one it was.

“Alright, put it back,” Faraday insisted.

Vasquez put the seven of clubs back in the deck, watching Faraday all the while. Faraday shuffled the deck before selecting the queen of diamonds.

“Is this your card?”

“No,” Vasquez said, reciting the line he knew he was meant to.

Vasquez knew what was coming.

With a dramatic flourish and  _flit_  of a card, Faraday revealed the seven of clubs, and Vasquez smiled despite himself.

“There’s your card,” Faraday said, his ear-to-ear grin nothing short of infectious.

Even drunk, Faraday’s sleight of hand was impressive, and, if Vasquez was being honest, still inscrutable.  

“I bet I have my horse saddled before you tomorrow,” Vasquez chanced.

“You know,” Faraday said, shutting his eyes and laughing. “You’re probably not wrong.”


	13. Deeper Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poly soft-spoken!Reader/Vasquez/Faraday fic

      

            The humidity was so unforgiving that it had driven the three of you from each other’s touch for the night. Vasquez was slumped in a chair in the corner, while you and Joshua lay at opposite sides of the bed. Both of you were above the bedclothes. Through the open window you could hear the steady drone of crickets, and in the distance, the yowling of coyotes. The nighttime melody would not usually have been so vexing, but you had difficulty imagining how any living creature could do anything in that weather, except perhaps, for suffer.

            You swept your hair back, and were far from surprised to find that it was damp with sweat at the roots. You sprawled your limbs as far as you could without encroaching on Faraday’s hemisphere of the bed. In the corner, Vasquez snored lightly. You’d lit no candles, but the moonlight that filtered through the window afforded you a view of both of your lovers. At your side, Joshua’s limbs were drawn tighter to him than you would have thought comfortable. But his sleep had been fitful lately, so as long as he was sleeping soundly, you’d pay it no mind.

            You focused on finding rest for yourself, but as you began to slide toward unconsciousness a whimper returned you to complete awareness. You shifted toward the sound and could see that the rise and fall of Joshua’s chest was becoming erratic.

            “Hey,” you said, finding that even soft voices could crack.

            There was no answer. Joshua’s lips parted and released a moan that made every part of you alert. It was nothing like the sounds he made when the three of you made love. There was both distress and resignation in the sound. Joshua panted as his right hand knotted itself in the sheets, and his left hand roamed to his right side. You knew that place boasted a scar from a bullet wound. A wound, as Faraday was fond of telling, Vasquez had avenged with the most vicious alacrity.

            “No,” Joshua murmured as his movement became frantic and his handsome features crumpled so fearfully that you wished you could reassure him.

            “Hey, shh,” you said, keeping your already quiet voice that much softer as you ventured closer in the darkness.

            His right arm batted at you, but caused you no pain. The motion was uncoordinated, and your hands had little trouble finding their way to his.

            “It’s okay,” you told him, hoping to guide him back to the waking world. “I’m here, Josh.”

            Brisk movement caught your attention, and Vasquez crouched at the side of the bed, and shook Joshua’s shoulder.

            In response, Joshua lunged upward with a cry of pain and dread. His eyes shot around the room, never lighting on one thing; they were wide and unseeing, until his gaze settled on you. His chest heaved and the corners of his mouth drew downward in misery. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and ran his hand through his damp hair. Vasquez hushed him, and rubbed reassuring circles on his back.

            “It’s okay, _guerito_ ,” Vasquez said; his voice was just as soft as yours in that moment.

            “I..” Joshua gulped in air and let out a ragged breath. His hand still grasped his side.

            Both you and Vasquez hushed Joshua, and despite the heat you both drew closer to him.

            “I didn’t want you to see this,” Joshua said at last, his voice low, and defeated.

            It was clear that his words were directed toward you, and you looked to Vasquez who kept one hand on Joshua’s shoulder while the other massaged the nape of his neck. Vasquez frowned, and looked at you with sadness and contrition. The dark waves of his hair were mussed with sleep. The set of his jaw was firm, but his eyes were softened by worry. You were sorry that they felt it necessary to keep this from you, but you hoped that it was for the sake of pride that they did so; not because they mistrusted you.

            “You don’t have to hide these things from me,” you said, tightening your grip on Joshua’s hand. “Either one of you.”

            Your words were quiet, but the weight they removed from Vasquez’s and Faraday’s shoulders was immense.

            Outside the crickets persisted in their serenade, and the coyotes continued to bawl.

 

* * *

 

            Alcohol blurred your senses in a most agreeable way, as you and Red Harvest trailed Vasquez and Faraday.  You’d all passed the evening in the bar of the town you’d just saved, and it didn’t take long for you to see the inherent benefits of joining the band of men.

            Ahead of you, Faraday gave Vasquez a drunken shove. The sound of laughter confirmed that Faraday’s action was intended only in jest, but you felt a knot develop in your gut no less. It was as though every misgiving you had about your budding relationship with the two cowboys was brought, unbidden, to the forefront of your mind. You took your inebriated state into account, but the thoughts were there, no less.

            At your side, Red nudged you, and you realized you’d stopped.

            “Sorry,” you whispered, offering Red Harvest a lop-sided grin that was reflected on his own face. “I just don’t know sometimes.”

            “About what?”

            Alcohol seemed to have increased the volume of Red’s deep, but usually discreet voice.

            You put a finger to your lips in hopes of silencing Red as you gestured to the two men walking ahead of you. Red’s eyes found Vasquez and Faraday, and he nodded with the sagacity of the intoxicated.

            “I’ve made some bad decisions in my life,” you confided, “but this…I think it feels right? They were together before I came along. And I mean, Faraday drinks too much and he can be such an ass. They both can be. And Vasquez gets this look in his eye sometimes. I think sometimes that he might just up and leave. Which isn’t to say that I’m any treat, myself, but I just feel like neither of them will ever really let me in.”

            The relationship was new, and tentative. Despite the harshness of the lives you were leading, there was a fragility that you could sense about the connection. It could be found in the way he and they both quieted down sometimes when you entered a room. And it was there when Vasquez’s mood grew dark for no apparent reason; in the way Faraday tried to hide his limp. You’d shared each other’s bodies, but you know that intimacy would take time.

            Red appeared to have been unprepared for such a dramatic shift in spirits. You’d seen his unfailing courage in battle, but when it seemed as though you expected an answer to a question you hadn’t even asked, there was, what you thought was abject terror on the Comanche’s face. Before you could apologize for your babbling, a voice from ahead interrupted you.

            “There a problem?”

That was Faraday. You and Red had stopped in your tracks again, and your mind chased after answers.

            “I was just admiring the view from back here!”

            Soft, and a little slurred, your words floated up to the pair. After a pause there was raucous laughter, and your doubts left just as quickly as they’d afflicted you.

 

* * *

 

             Joshua awoke to the ache of a full bladder. Unable to ignore necessity, he found the hem of his blanket and moved it off of himself before bothering to remove his hat from over his face. The fire was low, but remained strong. In the wee hours of the morning, the sky was still black. His seven companions still slept. Nothing was amiss. He hoisted himself up and found his way to an accommodating tree.

            He ambled back toward camp, and paused when a grey and black creature crossed his path. The rodent spared him a disapproving glance before continuing on its way. Was it a badger? Or a raccoon? A raccoon, his sleep-addled mind concluded, before continuing his trek. Joshua thought that the few hours directly preceding sunrise espoused a sort of unreality, but he decided to leave the conundrum for minds that were more poetically inclined than his own.

            He trod softly back to where he had been sleeping at your side. You slept with your face in Vasquez’s back, and Joshua smiled at this. He wondered how he’d gotten so lucky. _Too lucky_ , he thought. He knew all about being greedy at a card table. Something about this arrangement felt like he was pushing his luck in the most egregious way.

            He’d survived Rose Creek. He’d reunited with Vasquez. The two of them had found you. Or had you found them? Hell, he couldn’t help it if he was just born lucky, could he?

            He watched as you turned over in your sleep and found him absent from your side. Joshua saw your eyes go wide, and wander the camp before settling on him.

            “You okay?”

            Your voice reached him, and a tired smile played on his lips. You were quiet, yes; but it seemed so natural among the other noises of the early morning: the occasional pop of the flame, the call of an owl, the rush of the nearby brook.

            “Come on back,” you said, motioning him over with a languid hand.

            Occasionally, he was surprised at how soft-spoken you were. Though your voice was muted by sleep, it was barely quieter than when you spoke at full volume. He knew that he and Vasquez more than made up for the volume you lacked. Your voice was sweet and soft. It belied how fierce you could be, and he loved you all the more for that fact. He settled down next to you, very much aware that he had an idiotic grin on face.

He was going to keep pushing his luck. He never could help himself.

 

* * *

 

            You’d overplayed your hand and got yourself out of the card game. Joshua would be your last chance at making any money on that game. Vasquez sat at the bar. He’d excused himself from playing, citing his lack of skill in poker games. You relaxed in your chair as much as you could. You had a difficult time working out Joshua’s tells, but judging by the way he rubbed his thumb along the backs of the pair of cards he held, he was sitting on a winning hand.

            You were right. The dealer flipped the last card, and Joshua and his remaining opponent placed their final bets. They flipped their cards and Faraday crowed in triumph when he saw that his three nines beat the other man’s two-pair. Aces over kings.

            “Bullshit. You cheated,” the man snarled.

            “Bullshit, I didn't,” Faraday said in a voice that implied that he was willing to forgive him the accusation. He leaned back in his seat so as to make access to Ethel easier. “You got beat, is all.”

            Faraday’s opponent shot up from his seat and drew his weapon. Joshua offered no hostility in return. He didn’t have to. Your actions were adder-fast and equally precise. You grabbed the man’s gun hand and drove him back into the wall, with the muzzle of your own Colt pressing into the soft tissue of his belly.

            “I wouldn’t,” you warned with conviction as you drew back the hammer. “I really wouldn’t.”

            He looked at you with surprise, and poorly concealed fear. Perhaps it was the ferocity of your attack, juxtaposed with the softness of your voice; but his expression made it clear that he had been thoroughly dissuaded against any further argument. He nodded, and dropped his gaze. You released him, but kept your gun trained on him until Joshua collected his winnings. You realized Vasquez had crossed the saloon floor, his hands hovering over his guns. His face was a comic combination of concern, surprise, and humor.

            For safety’s sake, the three of you left town before nightfall.

 

* * *

 

            You traveled with The Seven, and you fought alongside them. The first time the group found occasion to rest, Faraday had invited you to the bed he shared with Vasquez. Vasquez had been more than amenable to it. Perhaps that was, in part, because there had been no expectation. At least, not at first. Your presence had simply become an unspoken custom. Vasquez would wake with his arms wrapped around you, and to Faraday looking at the two of you with equal measures fondness and sleepy smugness. It would have been vulgar and inaccurate to say that he and Faraday had been sharing you. You fit with them, simple as that.        

            The three of you walked down the street of the little town you were staying in, on a blazing afternoon in late spring. Vasquez bickered with Joshua about which, of the three of you, was smartest.

            “I’ve got a head for numbers,” Joshua said, shrugging as though he could not help that he was the most mentally gifted of your trio.

            Vasquez huffed and shook his head. Despite his best efforts, he was unable to keep himself from smiling. It was rare that Vasquez considered the breadth of his own intellect, compared to others. He never had to. He knew he was smart enough to survive, and that was what mattered.

            “They’re still smarter than you,” Vasquez said, brushing his hand along your shoulder and thinking about all the quiet, thoughtful noises you had a tendency to make while you were thinking.

            “Thank you,” you said, taking Vasquez’s hand, squeezing it, and shooting Joshua a belligerent grin.

            “I see how it is,” Joshua said as he chuckled. “I suppose I’ll have to concede.”

            Joshua Faraday, as far as Vasquez knew, had never been a gracious loser; a point Joshua confirmed when he gave you a playful swat on the behind. You yelped in mock pain, and the three of you laughed in the sunshine at your light-hearted squabbling. When that subsided, Vasquez drew in a breath, and exhaled. He tried to remember a time that he had sighed with such contentment in his heart. The need for weapons and caution seemed as distant as it possibly could, and for the first time in his life he was not pulling away; he wasn’t running.

           A clattering on the porch of a building they were passing interrupted Vasquez’s thoughts. Your hand went missing from his, and he watched as you went to the assistance of an old man who dropped the armful of metal scraps he’d been carrying. Faraday looked at him and smiled, and they both followed you to where you were holding a portion of the scraps and offering your help to the fellow.

          “What?” The old man was saying.

          “I can help you to wherever you’re heading, sir,” Vasquez heard you say. He smiled at your clear, but soft diction.

          “Beg pardon?”

          Vasquez saw you inhale, as you prepared to repeat yourself at a higher volume.

          “I can help you with this, sir.”

          “Oh!” The old man said. “Sorry! I’m hard of hearing. That’s awful kind of you! I’m just heading across the way.”

          Vasquez had never heard you speak so loudly before, and he guessed that by your standards you may as well have been shouting at the old-timer. Vasquez couldn’t help but smile. You were violent when you needed to be, but he had never seen you deterred in your compassion, either. He and Faraday took what the old man was holding, and the three of you saw the scraps delivered to their destination.

          “Thank you,” came your voice from between him and Joshua, when the three of you continued down the street.

          Your expression of gratitude was, like most of your speech, delicate and genuine. Vasquez slung a long arm around your shoulders, kissed the top of your head, and inhaled your scent.

          “I love you,” he said.

 

 

           

           


	14. I Wish I Was the Moon Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reader and Red Harvest have an intimate "I could have lost you" moment after the events of Rose Creek.

            Red woke slowly. The angle at which the sunlight tumbled through the window told him that he’d slept far later than his body usually permitted. Maybe the two of you had slept through more than just one night. His limbs were woven with yours, though, and he found that it was impossible to care. He smiled as he watched you sleep, and he kept himself from running a hand through your hair. When you woke, he thrilled at the sensation of your body stretching against his.

 

_Yesterday_

             Your chin fell toward your chest, and you returned to consciousness with a jolt and a curse. You ran a hand over your face, and stood to escape the lethargy that was plaguing you. Walking to the window between the two beds, you stared out. Goodnight was on your left, and Billy was on the right. You were staying with them in the doctor’s absence. You found yourself wishing for his return; though, you supposed that watching over two living people should have been preferable to digging graves.

_Is Goodnight’s breathing a little shallow?_

           That he was drawing breath at all was a miracle. Same with Billy, Jack and Faraday. You watched the rise and fall of the sharpshooter’s chest. Satisfied that that motion was not going to cease, you turned your attention out the window. There were familiar faces, but there was no sign of Red Harvest. The sky was still gray when you’d parted company that morning. You were grateful that he did not occupy a sickbed, but you chastised yourself for so selfish a thought.

            The creek of a floorboard behind you caused your head to turn in skittish haste. The physician apologized when he saw that he startled you, and you felt vexed with yourself for the fact you hadn’t hear his footsteps approaching down the hall in the first place. You echoed his apology and offered a smile. You knew it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

            “Any change?”

            “I think Goodnight’s breath might be a little shallow?” You were uncertain, but you thought it was best to address it.

            The doctor nodded, as though he’d expected it; and he thanked you for your time. You took that as permission to excuse yourself, but as you turned to leave the doctor –whose name eluded you –halted you.

            “How are your wounds?” He asked, without looking up as he knelt next to Goodnight in order to take his pulse.

            You quelled the impulse to touch the lacerations on your temple. During the melee, splintered wood had ricocheted and struck you. In retrospect, you knew you were lucky you hadn’t been blinded, or worse. You hadn’t realized you’d been wounded until you were half-blinded by your own blood.

            “Looks worse than it is,” you assured him.

            And that was the truth. Mostly. It itched fiercely, but in the back of your mind was the memory of Red as he’d stitched the deepest of the cuts. The warmth, and gentleness of Red’s hands, and the deep furrows in his brow; those were the only thoughts you spared for your own wounds.

            “Have a good evening,” the doctor said, though he levelled you a look that said he didn’t believe you in the least.

            You returned the sentiment. You didn’t suppose you made much effort to hide your desire to leave the confines of the infirmary. With one last look at Billy and Goodnight, you left.

           

            The stable yard, battered as it was, still served its purpose. You aided with the feeding and watering, and when that was through you found your way to the buckskin stallion you’d found after the fray. You decided that you’d see about keeping him for yourself, as your own horse had been slain. You felt a pang of loss at the thought. The black and white mare had been your sole companion for a time; and she had been one of the ways in which you and Red Harvest had first bonded. She’d had a mean-streak a mile across with anyone but you, but Red had helped fix that.

            The stallion whickered as you approached, and you were glad to see how he’d improved. When you’d found him, he’d been a wide-eyed, quaking creature that had looked at you in a way that made you wish he could tell you what was wrong. Now his eyes were bright, and he looked at you with interest. You regretted to inform him that you didn’t have any treats, but he seemed content with being scratched along his mane and neck. He breathed on you, and you leaned your head forward until it was touching his muzzle. You breathed out quietly, onto his nostrils, and you thought that you might fall asleep leaning against the animal.

            Your stomach snarled with accusation, and you supposed that it had been neglected. With a final pat, you left the horse to its own devices, and made your way to the boarding house, where you found Sam and Vasquez sharing a table. You were disappointed, but unsurprised that Red was nowhere to be seen. Conversation was conspicuously absent from the dining area. Everybody seemed to be staring down at their plates, their weariness compounding itself by preventing them from sating their hunger. It was no wonder why. Bleeding had been staunched, and fires were extinguished. That had been the only pause between the tearing down of Rose Creek, and its healing.

            You, Vasquez and Sam updated each other on the conditions of your wounded, and fell into silence until you asked the question that had been needling you.

            “Seen Red?” You kept your tone as unconcerned as possible, though you imagined the way your fingertips worried at the corner of the table informed Sam and Vasquez of the way you were warring with your own emotions.

            “Saw him ride out late this afternoon,” Vasquez offered. The edges of his words were softer than usual; and they came slower, as though his mind had required more time to translate them. You saw the muscles in his face bunch in a strained attempt at a smile. “Hunting, I think.”

            You nodded, and took a sip of water before proceeding to stare at the wall just above Vasquez’s left shoulder. Your jaw clenched with the certainty that Red had left, and was not coming back. You thought your lip began to tremble, but if either Vasquez or Sam had seen it, they afforded you the dignity of pretending they hadn’t. You took a deep breath, and then another drink as you reigned yourself in. You knew that you and Red had shared too much, and had been through too much. He would never just leave. You drained the remainder of your drink and bid the outlaw and the bounty hunter a good night.

            You scaled the stairs to your room, and while you considered collapsing onto the bed, you abstained. Instead, you lit candles, and closed the windows you’d left open. The day had been humid, but clouds were rolling in and a wind was kicking up. The drop in temperature heralded rain, and you found yourself wishing again for Red to be at your side. You undressed yourself, and stood in your underclothes for a moment before removing them, too.

            _I’m dead tired_.

            You were very much aware of how your own body felt like a shell. And if it was just a shell, what was it that animated it? You pushed the away the absurd, macabre thoughts, and dipped a towel into the water basin. You went about ridding yourself of the day’s grime, and for every part of you the fabric brushed over, there was the memory of Red’s touch; and you felt that much more depleted for his absence. When you and he had made love the night before the battle it had been intimate, and thorough; and it had felt like saying goodbye.

            You changed into your sole, clean pair of underclothes and emptied the basin before refilling it. There seemed nothing left to do but lay yourself down, and rest. But the quiet was troublesome when it should have been peaceful; and you thought to run your hand through the candlelight just so you could hear the flutter of the tiny flames.

            The light, but abrupt patter of raindrops on the windowpane drew your attention. You couldn’t help but notice how the phantasm of your reflection stared back at you, drawn, and alone. Incomplete. You winced at the thought, and resolved to pacify yourself in the way you did on sleepless nights, or when you had no one with whom to share the road. You couldn’t recall the name of the song, or its beginning; but its tune stuck in your mind, and its words in your heart. Rain began to fall in earnest, as though the sky had grown weary of holding it back.

            You began to sing as you stood with your eyes were heavy-lidded. You cut your own lullaby off mid-verse when you thought you heard the groan of a floorboard outside. When you decided that you’d imagined it, you drew in a breath and continued the song while rain lashed at the outside world.

           “I may not stay; I'm bound for leaving.  
            I'm bound to ramble, and to roam.  
            I only say my heart is grieving.  
            I would not gamble on my coming home.”

           There were two wraps on the door before it opened. Red’s face appeared between the door, and its frame, but he ventured no further as he awaited an invitation. You gave him a tired, but genuine smile. It didn’t seem possible that you had seen Red just that morning; it felt like so much longer.  

            You invited him in with a tilt of your head, though he didn’t need your permission. You supposed it had, for all intents and purposes become your room. You had taken up residence in it only after Red had left to espy the approach of Bogue and his army. Before that, you’d shared his camp on the outskirts of town. After the battle, you and Red had joined each other there for sleep only in the wee hours of the morning when exhaustion had dictated that you both collapse.

            _And there are still so many bodies to bury_ , you thought.

            You had only to look at the circles under Red’s eyes, and the uncharacteristic stoop in his shoulders to know that his energy was reaching its end just as assuredly as your own.

           But there was something else there, too. Something in his gaze, behind the weariness. In that moment, you were newly mindful of how little time the two of you had shared since the end of the battle, or even in the week preceding it. How few words you’d exchanged. How much you’d missed him.

          You walked over to the basin, soaked a fresh towel in the water, and rang it out, only too happy to be rid of the silence and stillness that would usually have been welcome.

         “Get cleaned up?” you asked.

          After a moment, he dipped his head, and shrugged his way out of his vest. He folded the garment over his arm before walking to the corner of the room and setting it on a chair. He took off his necklace, too, and set it on top of his vest. Stripped to the waist, Red closed the distance between you before taking the cloth, and then departing several steps. You felt he corners of your mouth drag downward. That his fingers didn’t even brush yours made it feel as though he were worlds away. Was it disappointment, or dread you felt in the absence of his touch? Fatigued as he was, it seemed that Red was unwilling to let you help him, even in the smallest ways.   

       “What were you singing?”

        He didn’t look at you as he ran the cloth over the nape of his neck, and then his shoulder.

        “A song.”

         You regretted the frustration and glibness that colored your words. The two of you had never had reason to argue, or disagree. You’d always been going the same direction. You both knew that Red was not one for small talk, and that his words were, at best, a stalling tactic. The image of the buckskin stallion crowded your mind when Red looked at you. His eyes were dark, and sad. And so damn tired. They held no hope that he could explain the depth of what was hurting him.

        “Why are you pushing me away?”

        Your words were direct, and unexpected, but so was Red’s response.

        “Because I could have _lost_ you!”

        The volume and raw honesty in his voice shocked both of you, and something in him sagged as though that were the point on which his tension had hinged. You thought that, perhaps, he might fold in on himself, but the fear that you would be rebuffed kept you from going to him. As you blinked back the sudden welling of tears, Red stood there, holding the cloth like a white flag.

 _But you didn’t lose me_ , you thought. _And I could have lost you, but we still wouldn’t have talked each other out of following after Sam_. The hollow echo of those justifications made you shift your weight from one foot to the other. You would be the one to surrender, if surrender was what it must be considered.

            Red set the cloth on the stand as you approached him, and he made no move to stop you when you took his hand in your own. You pressed your lips to his palm at the base of his thumb.

            “I can’t begin to imagine all the things you’ve lost, Red.” You kissed his palm again. “But I won’t be one of them if I can help it.”

            He closed his eyes, and curved his fingers under your jawline. He breathed in, and out. Red met your gaze and nodded before pulling you to his chest and wrapping his arms around you. You own arms encircled him, and as your hands traced soothing patterns over his skin, you rested your head on his chest, and felt his body’s solidity and warmth.

            Words in the Comanche language reached your ears. Under Red’s tutelage, you were learning, but the translation was lost on you. He held you tighter.

            “I saw your horse, and I thought…” Red shook his head.

            _Oh_ , you thought. _Oh, no_.

            “I wasn’t there to protect you,” he said; his voice thick, and apologetic.

You tilted yourself back and looked at him. You beat back the urge to tell him you could look after yourself; you knew it wasn’t his intention to imply otherwise.

            “You saved Emma when she needed saving,” you said. “Besides, you’re here now.”

            He glanced away from you and frowned, as if to tell you that that was hardly the point.

            “I’m not with you because you can protect me.” They were words you’d been keeping to yourself for a long while, but maybe this was the time to share them. You moved a hand from behind him and placed it over his heart. “You’re smart, and brave. You’re a good man, Red. That’s why I’m with you. That’s why I love you.”

            He broke eye contact with another doleful nod then renewed his embrace.

            Eventually, the way you grasped each other softened. Red allowed you to bathe him, and with each passing of the cloth, he leaned into your touch. By the time you’d finished, his eyes were growing heavy. Yours were, too, you realized.

            The two of you sank onto the bed and slept, too tired to even dream.

           

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, come geek out with me on tumblr!


	15. Put A Spell On You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy Rocks/witch!Reader fic

                You could hear the crackle of the fire through the burlap sack that covered your head. As luck would have it, neither of your captors was cruel enough to keep you at such a distance from the flame that you were excluded from its warmth.

            _I’m lucky like that_ , you thought.

            Some grim musing bubbled up within you, and you thought that even if you found yourself with a noose around your neck, it would be far from the worst thing that had ever happened to a witch. And a wrongly accused one, at that.

            Your knees pleaded with you to shift your position, and you conceded that it was time to settle down for the night. Your hands were bound behind you, and so you took care not to topple hard onto your side. Your wrists and the rest of your joints ached, but most maddening was that you’d been gagged. The way your saliva dampened the cloth outside your mouth made you long for freedom nearly as much as the threat of being hanged.

            A newcomer’s voice interrupted your thoughts.

            “Evenin’.”

            You heard the men who were intent on making money off of you bustle to their feet with exclamations of surprise.

            “Aw, don’t stand on our account,” came a second voice; this one boasted a generous touch of the South.

            “Whatchy’all doin’ out here?”

            That was the younger of your captors. You’d dubbed him Pinky because the pinky finger on his right hand was conspicuously absent. You admitted –if only to yourself –that, on occasion, your creativity left something to be desired.

            “No reason to mince words, I suppose,” said the first newcomer.

            “We can’t let y’all take that lil’ girl in.”

            “That right?” That was the older bounty hunter. You’d heard Pinky refer to him as Stuart. Mentally you’d referred to him by other names.  

            Your potential rescuers seemed to pay no mind to the belligerence in Stuart’s voice.

            “You got the wrong person.”

            _That’s what I was trying to tell them!_ You would have yelled, had it not been for the gag.

            “My ass,” said Stuart. “She’s The Witch. Just like on the poster.”

            _I look nothing like the poster!_

            The woman wanted for the crimes you were being accused of had been dubbed The Witch. You supposed the name was catchy, and provoked fear in the minds of those who were less enlightened; but that didn’t change the fact that it had nothing to do with you.

            “She ain’t,” said the first man in a voice that was both reasonable and authoritative. “I collected on that bounty. I heard she was convicted two weeks back.”

            “Don’t see what difference it makes.” That was Pinky. “Why not let fellow officers of the law make a few bucks in a different state?”

            “We can’t let you do that.”

            The man’s tone advised them against rash action, but implied it was all the same to him if they wanted to make a fuss.

            _Oh, good_ , you thought. _Bravado_.

            There was a pause, and you doubted your captors were contemplating how inherently wrong their argument was. Then four sets of weapons were cocked. You tensed, preparing to be peppered with gunfire, but none came.

            “Two against two,” Pinky said.

            “See, now, that ain’t exactly true.”

            The Southerner’s voice sounded downright jovial. You were not so distracted by the goings on that you didn’t hear the footsteps that approached from behind you. You remained very, very still.

            More hammers were pulled back. You were unsure how many.

            “See?” the Southerner continued. “There’s no reason this has to be ungentlemanly. Billy?”

            Someone crouched beside you, and you battled with the impulse to kick out, despite the fact you were bound at the ankles. That same person gave you quiet assurances as he cut through the rope before moving on to the one around your wrists. When he was done, you attempted to push yourself up; but relief in your joints was intermingled so powerfully with pain that you could not. You flinched when he began to move the burlap sack from over your head.

            “It’s okay,” he said before completely removing the rough fabric.

            The chill of the night air hit your face, and your eyes were unfocused. Everything else was overridden by your need to be rid of your gag. Your hands flailed upward, but could find no purchase. The man, Billy, raised his hands with his palms outward and nodded at the hateful scrap of cloth. You lowered your hands and shook your head. You were jostled in the smallest of ways as he worked to undo the fabric with strong, controlled fingers. When he was done, he threw the cloth away with more force than was necessary.

            You breathed in and out with as much dignity as you could, and brushed away the hair that was clinging to your face. Your mouth was dry, but you managed words.

            “Thanks,” you said, as you pushed yourself into a seated position. “It was getting warm in there.”

You thought you saw the corners of Billy’s mouth twitch as he stood and extended a hand. You accepted his help in standing, and he allowed you to anchor yourself by keeping a hand on his arm. For the first time, you saw your savior’s high cheekbones, his distinguished jawline; and his dark, intelligent eyes. His clothes were what you’d expect to see on a man from the West, but his handsome features bespoke the East.

“Anytime,” he said as he regarded you with interest that appeared to be equal to your own.

The force of other gazes broke whatever spell Billy had cast on you, and you turned your attention to the six other men who had saved you.

“Thank you all,” you told them, expressing gratitude where it was due.

There was a collective nod and as your eyes settled on Pinky, you were given momentary direction. Around his neck, he wore the charm that he had taken from you.

 _Fat load of good it did you, jackass_ , you thought as you began walking over to him.

The twine gave a satisfying _snap_ as you took it from him. You would replace it later. In the meantime, you settled the charm in your pocket, and entertained thoughts of threatening Pinky and Stuart with a curse. Before you could taunt them with anything sufficiently embarrassing, the man dressed all in black –the leader? –spoke to you.

“Name’s Sam Chisolm, miss. You alright?”

“Yeah. Yes, thank you,” you replied as you took your eyes off of the pair that had wronged you, and looked over the seven men that surrounded you, trying to work out what, if anything, they wanted from you. Then, lest they thought you were not dangerous in your own right, you added: “They got _a_ witch. Just not _the_ witch.”

You’d learned early in life that superstition could be a blessing and a curse, and to bend it to your favor when you could.

“I think it’s time,” Sam said, addressing Pinky and Stuart, “that the two of you were on your way.”

The group of gunslingers –and in one case, you noticed, an archer –punctuated Sam’s words by tightening their grips on their weapons. This brooked no argument, and the two wayward bounty hunters gathered what was theirs before hustling away without a word.

“You’re more’n welcome to join me and my men on our way to the next town,” Sam said.

You nodded, grateful to have been given the option. You gathered your horse and followed The Seven to where they had left theirs. By dawn you entered the small town, and Billy had ridden next to you all the while.

_A few months later…_

            You scaled the steps to the saloon’s top veranda, and found Billy, smoking a cigarette and staring out over the town. After the morning’s events, you were all taking time to regain your footing. You hoped you weren’t intruding, but you needed to know where you and Billy stood. Three months of traveling with The Seven, and that morning was the first time you’d displayed the range of your craft.

            “Evenin’,” you greeted.

            Billy’s eyes flickered upward, and he nodded before returning his attention to the roof across the street. You smiled. You’d learned, in short order, not to take offense to Billy’s tacit forms of salutation. Even so, you hoped that it was not an indication that he was seeking to distance himself from you, or that he didn’t trust you. The companionship you’d found with one another was steadily growing into something else; and while Billy didn’t seem like the sort to be easily scared off, you were having difficulty avoiding a sense of insecurity.

            “You knew where to find me.”

            “Magic,” you said as you waggled your eyebrows.   

            “Really?”

His solemn gaze belied the humor that played across his lips at your mystical, if playfully insincere, affectation.

“Nah,” you continued, as though either one of you had believed what you’d said. “Vasquez said he saw you heading up this way.”

By the time you’d asked Vasquez if he knew where Billy was, word of what had happened had certainly reached the rest of the group. While Vasquez regarded you with more open curiosity than he might otherwise have done, you’d been happy that there had been no reproach in his expression. That had been the general attitude of the little patchwork family you seemed to have become a part of.

Between the time you’d left Vasquez and found Billy you’d come across Faraday.

“Hell of a parlor trick,” he’d said without looking up from whatever form of solitaire he’d been playing. Of any of The Seven, Faraday was the only one to openly doubt your powers, but the tone of his voice and his smile had made it clear that he had reconsidered his opinion.

"You have no idea," you'd said.

You sat down in the chair next to Billy’s. He leaned forward, rolled his shoulders and winced. His hand was half way to his shoulder before he set it back on his knee.

            “How’s your shoulder?”

_How are we?_

You propped your elbows on your knees and looked at Billy out of the corner of your eye as you awaited a reply.

            Billy took an unhurried drag on his cigarette before exhaling a plume of smoke; you watched as it danced upward.

            “Good,” he said. Though the pall of blood loss no longer clung to Billy’s features, it was clear that the morning’s events were weighing on his mind. “Thank you.”

            “Anytime,” you said, echoing your first meeting. “But, it’s just as likely that I would have accidently turned you into an animal.”

            “A toad?” he asked as he exhaled more smoke and arched his eyebrows.

            “Maybe,” you said as though you’d already given the subject a great deal of thought. “But I think you’d make a better cat.”

            You both laughed, and you could not possibly have expressed how good it felt that Billy knew you were (mostly) kidding. Your laughter became quiet, comfortable chuckles before you and Billy lapsed into silence and listened to the dwindling bustling from the street below. A lazy smile remained on your lips while you thought of the ways Billy’s grace and lethal aptitude put cats to shame.

It was Billy who eventually broke the silence.

            “You’re powerful, though.”

His words were matter-of-fact, and lacked any judgment or fear. You exhaled through your nose; a show of good humor masking relief. You ran your thumb back and forth over your fingertips, remembering the way you’d reached out with your power to crush the life from the man who’d shot Billy. And you would have, too. You remembered the flash of malignant intent within you, and the way you’d reined yourself in, if for no other reason than to reserve your strength in order to heal what would likely have been a mortal wound.

You recovered from your thoughts by drawing your own cigarette from the pack in your pocket and placing it between your lips.

            “I am,” you admitted, at last. With a flourish of your hand that induced a quickening of the elements, you ignited the cigarette. “But I’m not one to brag.”

As you and Billy reclined in your chairs and his one of his hands found its way to yours. The two of you smoked, and smiled long into the night.

           

           

             

           

           

 


	16. Fifty-two Pickup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fight had gone exactly as planned, but something was still wrong. Vasquez is there for Faraday.

The heady after effects of battle propelled Vasquez through the work that followed the fray. He replayed the gunfight that left thirty-some bandits dead, and saw his (and the rest of The Seven’s) pockets lined with gold. Even through the mayhem, everything had gone like clockwork. Compared to an army, the gang and its leader had been easily corralled and disposed of. Vasquez smiled anew when he remembered the explosive destruction of a negligible, but strategically placed toolshed. He’d been in range to see the shock on the faces of their enemies, but not to see the ear-to-ear grin that doubtlessly spread across Joshua’s face in the wake of the percussive force that one of his deftly placed shots had caused.

That thought alone was enough bring a smile to Vasquez’s face, but memories of the night before made the corners of his lips lift higher, still. Physical attachment notwithstanding, Vasquez grew more thankful everyday that Joshua had decided to rejoin The Seven after he’d healed.

Vasquez found his way to the table at the local saloon. Goodnight clapped him on the shoulder and Jack handed him a bottle of whiskey. He took a pull of the drink, and it wasn’t until that moment that he realized his first impulse was to hand it to Josh. Vasquez scanned the room, only to find him absent. No grin. No flutter of playing cards. No obtrusive, but affectionate arm over his shoulders. It shouldn’t have gnawed at Vasquez, but it did.

His mind tracked back to the last time he’d seen Joshua. Just after the fight, he’d been reloading Maria. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but the frenetic, clumsy way Joshua had handled the rounds hit Vasquez with such clarity that the pit of his stomach twisted in on itself.

“Seen Josh?” he asked, his voice low and unheeding of the room’s levity.

Vasquez watched as his companions paused, and thought on his question. With words or gestures, they answered in the negative. Jack asked if everything was alright, and Vasquez affirmed that was. Vasquez had never been a skilled liar, and the group’s collective expression conveyed as much. None of them challenged him, though. When Billy materialized at his side, Vasquez became conscious of the way his shoulders had slumped.

“Saw him head into the hotel,” Billy said.

His tone was as casual as though he’d stated that the chandeliers were in need of cleaning, but Billy’s knowing expression made immediate action feel imperative.

“ _Gracias,_ ” Vasquez  mumbled before he walked out the door, whiskey bottle still in hand.

Vasquez wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but blood and injury might have been preferable to what he found.

Joshua stood by the side of the bed, arms at his sides, and shoulders tense. His russet hair was disheveled, and he sported neither a kerchief, or his gun belt. His eyes were asking questions that, perhaps, his mind hadn’t even formulated. Vasquez’s frown deepened when he saw the way Joshua’s chest moved with short, unsettle breaths.

“Hey,” Vasquez said as he shut the door behind him, and searched his mind for anything to say. “Thought you could use a drink.”

Faraday blinked, clenched his jaws, and swallowed hard.

When it was clear that was all the response Vasquez was going to get, he set the bottle on the end table before taking a step closer to his lover. Josh’s expression changed from one of uncertainty, to one that Vasquez recognized all too well: He wanted to run. Vasquez’s heart went out to Josh, and he quashed his own unbidden panic. Difficult as it was, Vasquez redirected his focus to the rest of the room.

The desk’s chair was on its side. That was the first thing Vasquez righted. Then he moved to where Ethel and Maria were lying between the wall and the bed. He picked up the gun belt with reverence befitting the affection their owner usually showed them before settling them on the desk. Next was the packet of matches and the packet of cigarettes; even the cigarette that had been twisted in half. He put them next to the guns. Vasquez felt Josh’s eyes on him. Despite the fact they’d grown close, Vasquez wondered if he could, or should try to comfort Josh.

“You’re hurting,” he attempted

Faraday shook his head and huffed out air through his nose. It was a harsh, bitter sound in the otherwise quiet room.

“Yeah, well you ain’t gotta be here.”

There was a veiled challenge on Josh’s words, but his voice lacked any edge. Though he wanted to sate his need to pull Josh close and console him, this ignited frustration in Vasquez, and he’d be lying if he said those words didn’t sting. He knew better than to try to force an answer out of Josh, though. Especially in that moment.

There was one more thing to be sorted.

Faraday’s deck of cards had fallen down around his feet. Vasquez crouched and began picking them up. He could tell it was a new deck, not worn by innumerable shuffles. Vasquez picked up the cards, taking care not to bend any; even the most stubborn ones that didn’t want to be lifted from the floorboards. He made certain they were all facing the same direction. He neatened the game of chance and wiles before standing and facing Josh. He was close enough to smell the sharp scent of distress. Josh looked pale and drawn.

Vasquez stepped closer, gambling that Josh wouldn’t pull away from him...or shut him out.

“We don’t have to talk,” Vasquez said. His dark eyes were worried, and his mouth had become a small, earnest line. He tucked the cards into the front pocket of Faraday’s shirt, and kept his hand over on Josh’s chest. “But I’m not leaving.”

Seeing a flicker of challenge might have felt rewarding, or maybe damning, but Josh looked at him. His back was too rigid, and his eyes were a little wider than they should have been.

“The goddamn dynamite, Vas.”

 _Oh_.

Josh had enthusiastically volunteered to be the one to ignite the explosives -”For old time’s sake,” he’d said -and everyone had laughed.

Why the hell hadn’t Vasquez seen it?

“I didn’t...I didn’t know I’d-”

Josh’s voice hitched, then cracked. Unshed tears lent his eyes a manic gleam. Vasquez was uncertain whether Joshua was going to laugh, cry, or be ill.

Instead, Joshua’s face fell; his shoulders slackened, and he leaned forward. Vasquez didn’t second guess the gesture. He pressed his chest to Josh’s and slid his arms around Josh’s sides, and around his back. Josh rested his forehead in the crook of Vasquez’s neck and drew in a deep breath. Josh’s body was solid and warm, but the way his exhalation shuddered out of him made Vasquez hold him closer.

“It’s okay,” Vasquez murmured as he rubbed circles over the expanse of Josh’s back. “It’s okay.”

Josh pulled his head up so that he was nose to nose with Vasquez.

           “How is this okay?” he asked in a thick voice.

           Vasquez’s hands paused as he floundered for an answer. He was suddenly back by Josh’s sick bed, both terrified of the attachment he felt, and even more terrified of having it severed. He was anchored by the knowledge he’d do anything to make Joshua Faraday better.

            “You didn't know. Now you do. We can go from there.”

           Vasquez felt like he was babbling, but he hoped the sentiment made sense. Josh’s eyes searched Vasquez’s. He thought Josh was going to argue, but instead, he gave a hesitant nod. Vasquez returned the gesture and let out a breath. The small sign that Josh wasn’t going to let this eat him alive was everything.

            With the motion of a man many years his senior, Josh sat on the bed. Vasquez’s long arms helped ease him down before he sat next to Josh. Josh rested his head on Vasquez’s shoulder, and Vasquez’s hand searched out Josh’s. They sat in silence like that, listening to each other breathe.

 

“I’m still a damn good shot,” Josh said.

           Vasquez closed his eyes, laughed and pressed a kiss to Josh’s head.


	17. TLC

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seven mini fics about the reader helping The Seven bathe after the've been incapacitated in some way.

Vasquez

You announced yourself when you entered Vasquez’s room. Your regret was instant when he startled awake.  
“Just me,” you assured him.  
His eyes pressed shut, then opened again. When sadness, anger, and disappointment crowded his features, you knew you didn’t have to ask if his sight had returned. You set the supplies you’d gathered on the nightstand and watched as Vasquez sat himself up, and slowly moved his legs over the side of the bed. He moved his head and blinked his eyes again. When the result was the same, his shoulders slumped. You resisted the urge to wrap your arms around him, and tell him everything was going to be fine. Practicality would have to suit you where hopefulness could not.  
“How’s your head?” you asked as you stepped closer to him.  
“Hurts,” he admitted. “But not as bad as it had.”  
That was something, at least. You put a hand on Vasquez’s shoulder, and chided yourself for having done so when he flinched. You squeezed his shoulder in soft assurance.  
“Sorry,” you said.  
“S’okay,” he said as he dipped his head a little farther and you both silently acknowledged that it was one more thing you might have to get used to.  
“Mind if I look at your head?” you ventured.  
Better safe than sorry, you thought.  
Vasquez shrugged, and inclined his head at an angle that would allow you to see where he’d been struck. You sat next to him, and looked at the wound. It was healing, and nowhere near as swollen. You were glad he couldn’t see your face as you remembered the way you’d found him in the street, bleeding and unconscious, after the last fight.  
“Looks better,” you said as you ran your fingers in gentle patterns through his curls. You sat next to him. When the quiet became unbearable, you asked, “Can I get you anything?”  
There was a barely audible “no,” and he kept his eyes downcast. Vasquez’s amiability seemed to have fled him, along with his eyesight; and so you knew better than to recite all the reasons for optimism.  
“How about a bath?”  
It was as good a time as any to broach the subject, and you’d had few enough means of helping him feel better over the past few days. Truth to tell, he didn’t make it easy sometimes.  
He made a small noise. You chose to interpret it as a yes; and you prepared the water, soap, and towels. Vasquez stood and began to strip himself. He seemed off kilter, but you stood close by and waited patiently, lest he fall.  
“You wanna sit?”  
“I’ll stand,” he said without bothering to turn his head in your direction.  
You ignored the way his words were rushed, and a little defensive. You knew his tone was not directed at you, and that if your positions were switched, you would be self-reliant where you could be, too.  
“Okay,” you said after you nodded, and realized he was unable to see the gesture. “That’s good.”  
You started with his hair, face, neck and shoulders. Save for instructing Vasquez, and letting him know where and when you were going to touch him, you worked in silence. Your touch didn’t seem to relieve his stress the way it usually did. You doubted it was modesty that ruffled him, even as you saw to his most intimate parts. And you couldn’t simply ascribe it to his frustration at his inability to outrun his own, current limitations.  
Could you?  
Maybe it was something else. Something that needed to be said in a matter-of-fact way that was not an emotional reaction to misfortune. You mulled over your words as you retrieved a towel with which to dry him, and began to retrace your work.  
“This doesn’t change anything between us,” you told him. “I’m not going anywhere.”  
You worked the towel over his side with more insistence than you had, hoping to make your presence feel more solid; to emphasize the truth of your words.You waited for him to argue, or pull away; but instead he swallowed thickly and nodded.  
After you finished, you aided him in putting on some nightclothes. You brought meat and potatoes for dinner, and cut them into pieces that could be easily picked up. Neither of you had much of an appetite, but after the food was gone, you both retired for the evening; though it was far earlier than the two of you usually sought rest.  
The next morning, you woke from a deep sleep to the warmth of Vasquez’s body next to you, and the feeling of his hand insistently jostling you.  
“Whuh?” you asked, your speech dulled by sleep.  
You could see the glint of tears in his eyes as he waved his other hand in front of his face.  
“It’s coming back,” he whispered.

Joshua Faraday

“I get it,” he says with a wink, and a nod downward at his wounded body. “You miss this. Can’t say I blame you.”  
You chuckled and quirked your brow so as to let him know he was not incorrect in his assertion.  
“Be that as it may,” you said, “I should probably offer you a bath.”  
“You sayin’ I stink?  
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” you told him, trusting that his sense of humor would not allow his pride to chafe.  
You laughed, and Josh’s grin widened. His face had, if possible, become even more animated since he’d broken his ribs. His inability to laugh, or indeed breathe without causing himself pain, seemed to have necessitated this.  
“That’s how it is, then?” he asked as he reached out a hand in your direction.  
“I’m afraid so,” you confirmed as you took his hand in yours and brushed your thumb against his knuckles.  
“Just let me know if I hurt you, okay?” you said as you placed his hand on the bed.  
“Sure will,” he said as he held his lower lip between his teeth, and he tracked your movements with his eyes.  
You removed his underthings and engaged in the expected, familiar innuendo before soaking cloth in the warm, soapy water, and wringing it out.  
“Ow!” he bawled the second you touched the cloth to his skin.  
You jumped, and very nearly apologized before you saw the mischief in his eyes. You smiled despite yourself. No harm in letting him have some fun, even if it was at your expense. It was far better than seeing the glimpses of ennui when conversation was running dry, or the way his gaze was miles away when he fussed with a bandage, or absently ran his fingers over a scar. He’d had far worse injuries, and these ones were just bad enough to confine him to a bed. If he felt it was particularly unfair, or infuriating, he made no mention of it.  
“Care to tell me how many more times you’re gonna do that?” you asked as playfully tracked a corner of the cloth over his forehead.  
He clucked his tongue.  
“Haven’t decided yet.”  
“Ah,” you said as you settled closer and and began the task of cleaning him. “For the record, Vasquez has asked me how it is I haven’t smothered you with a pillow yet.”  
“I bet,” Josh said as he exhaled a breath instead of laughing. His eyes glittered with humor, though.  
He didn’t repeat his joke. Rather, he offered you his limbs as best he could, and prattled about the things he was going to do once he’d healed. He asked you how Jack was. He laughed when you told him about his horse’s hijinks, but he solemnly promised that Jack liked you. The only time he fell silent was when you moved close to his wounds. When the path of your efforts brought you to a scar -whether it had been from a bullet, or from flame -you would pause before going over it as gently as though those wounds were still fresh. How many lives had he saved in sustaining those?  
Faraday was a study in contradictions, and those moments were no exception. He looked from his body to you with what you decided was modest pride.  
Bathing the rest of him proved more arduous, though. Turning him on to one side, then the other, proved a challenge, but with equal measures of cursing and encouragement, you both managed. The process of redressing him was much the same.  
When he was returned to the flat of his back, he made a poor attempt at hiding the way his breath had become labored. You and Josh had underestimated the level of exertion the theoretically simple task would take.  
“Anything in particular you want me to get for dinner?” You asked after you’d both recovered.  
His hand found its way to the back of your knee and his fingers tapped a little tattoo there. There was nothing suggestive in it. There was uncharacteristic softness and sincerity in his gray-blue eyes.  
“What?” you asked with a smile that asked him to let you in on whatever it was he was playing at.  
“You’re taking such good care of me,” he said as he repeated the arhythmic beat on your leg. “Thank you.”  
You weren’t sure what you’d expected him to say, but it hadn’t been that. And moreover, had he expected that you wouldn’t stay by his side while he healed?  
“Well...yeah,” you said. If you’d had anything eloquent, or sentimental to say in return, you’d lost it. “You’re welcome.”  
There was a pleasant, unique silence between you.  
He shut his eyes, but a lopsided grin told you he wasn’t quite ready to give up consciousness.  
“Thought it was your turn to pick dinner,” he said.

Red Harvest

You had to steel yourself before entering Red’s room. Seeing him in his current state hurt your heart. He’d been injured -perhaps worse than he ever had been -and the knowledge that the men who had done it got worse, came as little consolation. Treatment of Red’s wounds was beyond the skill of anyone in the group; and while finding a sympathetic physician hadn’t been as difficult as you’d all feared, what followed had still been unpleasant. Being handled and healed by means that were not his own seemed to have taken their toll on Red just as surely as his injuries. You didn’t know what was worse for him: the knowledge that he needed help, or the humiliation of having been brought so low in the first place. In the time you’d known him, he never seemed to be one to abide weakness in himself.  
You set the water basin on the nightstand.  
“Thought I could get you cleaned up.”  
Red’s gaze dragged itself from the basin to you. The flash in his eyes and tightness in his jawline told you that he didn’t wish to endure one more indignity, no matter how necessary.  
“I’m fine,” he said in the same tone in which he refused anything that was offered for the pain.  
As if to prove his point he attempted to sit up.  
It was your instinct to press his shoulders down with gentle hands. Instead, you marshalled your expression. You refused to repeat the litany of admonishments Red had already been subject to.  
You need to be still. You need to rest. Let yourself heal.  
Anger and frustration creased his face; but it hurt worse to see those creases smoothed by the sadness and weariness that replaced them when he leaned back on the pillow.  
“You pull those stitches, and the doc’ll have my hide,” you told him in as lighthearted a tone as you could manage.  
Ransoming yourself in Red’s eyes, even in jest, was a clumsy and obvious. It was certainly not playing fair. But where his well being was concerned, you found it very difficult to care.  
Red opened his mouth to say something, but stopped.  
Let me be kind to you, you pleaded. Let me help.  
You did your best to supress your own ego. Although you’d shared much of yourselves with one another, it was conceivable you weren’t the person Red needed at that moment.  
“It’s okay,” you said as you placed your hand next to the water. “I can get one of the others to help, if you want.”  
“You…”  
Even if his words would have served only to push you away, you were disappointed when he trailed off. Red could never be accused of being verbose, but since he’d been deprived of so much autonomy, he’d barely spoken.  
“I know it’s hard for you to need help, Red.”  
You left it at that. There were no qualifications to the statement you could make, no platitudes that would do any good. Even aid from his most trusted company was met with vexation that never quite bridged over into outright hostility. And it wasn’t difficult for any of you to intuit why. There was a consequent terror in being reliant on anyone after having been alone for so long; and you knew it hit Red especially hard.  
You shifted your weight from one foot to the other. Red’s expression softened, and you could see how tired he looked; how dark the circles under his eyes were.  
He gave the basin a baleful look before giving you a resigned nod.  
You made sure the water was still an agreeable temperature before washing his face and neck. From there, you moved in earnest, slowly and gently while heeding every involuntary wince.  
“Let me know if you need me to stop.”  
Red tried to remain distant. He trained his gaze on the ceiling, or on the wall beside his bed. Anywhere but your eyes. When Red’s breath hitched and you saw his Adam’s apple bob, you did him the courtesy of not witnessing the way he was losing the battle with his emotions. He wouldn’t have wanted you to see his eyes red-rimmed, and wet with unshed tears. You continued to clean him, pausing every so often to lay a comforting hand on a part of him that wasn’t wounded. You willed him to know you were there for him, and to allow himself to feel whatever he needed to.  
You wondered what wounds would remain after his flesh had healed, and about all the other hurts he’d never told you about. You thought that maybe you would have drowned in the depths of such pain. But Red hadn’t.  
Red wouldn’t.  
There was a spot of dried blood on Red’s ankle. Once you removed it, you were finished.  
“I’ll come by later, if you want,” you said as you straightened yourself. You doubted there would be a reply; and you were halfway to the door before Red spoke.  
“Stay?”

Sam Chisolm

You were sitting in the chair in the corner of the room, reading a newspaper article. Sam had been sleeping, but the way he snapped awake told you he hadn’t been doing so restfully. All the calm strength Sam usually exuded was gone. A hand went to his throat as he tensed upward, as far as his injuries would allow. Sam’s eyes rested on you and you could see the effort he put into regulating his emotions. He put his hand back down at his side and gave you a weary, self deprecating smile. It wasn’t something you were accustomed to seeing on Sam’s face.  
As Sam let his body heal, his mind was waged war on itself. Careful to preserve your newspaper’s seams, you folded it, and set it on the desk. Without a word, you walked over to Sam’s side, and took his hand in yours. You rested it on your lap as you sat on the side of the bed. You listened to his breath even out. He squeezed your hand and you sat like that for a few minutes before looking back at him. He looked worn. Between the effects of his injuries, and his need to keep his mind busy, it was little wonder.  
He gave you another tired smile before rolling his shoulders as best he could.  
“Feeling like a lame horse,” he admitted.  
“Well, I don’t plan on treating you like a lame horse,” you assured him as you returned his hand squeeze.  
“That’s good to hear.”  
The two of you shared in the familiar amiability you’d come to look for in one another.  
“Figured I’d get some soap and water,” you said as you stood. “Get you cleaned up.”  
“Nah, I can manage.”  
You made a point of eyeing him, to let him know that you doubted it would be an easy task, as he had use of only half of his limbs.  
“I don’t doubt it,” you said. “But it won’t take near as long if you let me help.”  
“You’re bull-headed.”  
“I am?”  
Sam smiled. He knew he’d struck a nerve.  
You returned his smile, but both of you knew that not all of your indignation was pretend. After all, you weren’t the one treating broken limbs like minor inconveniences.  
”You’d do the same for me, Sam Chisolm.”  
And he knew it was true. From the beginning, your relationship had been first and foremost, a partnership. If your positions had been reversed, he would have taken whatever measures he could to make sure you were cared for in every regard.  
“Yes,” he said as though he could see no connection. “I would.”  
“Tell you what,” you said. “You let me help get you scrubbed up, I’ll let you win next time we play chess.”  
“That right?” he asked.  
It was good to see him return your playful, competitive smile. You knew that no matter what strategy the two of you played at, whether it was a game or a battle plan, neither of you had it in you to let one outdo the other.  
While you were each well-versed in one another’s strengths and weaknesses, infirmity wasn’t chess. You weren’t trying to outmaneuver each other.  
That didn’t stop you from setting the water down on the table with the finality that usually preceded a declaration of “checkmate.”  
You helped him over to the adjacent chair. While you waited for him to make himself as comfortable as he could, you offered your limited skills as a barber. He declined, and you both chuckled.  
Sam reached out his good hand. You took it and allowed him to pull you closer.  
“Probably for the best,” you said before planting a kiss on Sam’s forehead.  
Sam washed where he could, but judging by the focused frown on his face, his mobility was far more limited than he’d expected. You took over and made efficient, thorough work of the rest of the process. The only time you paused was when you realized that Sam Chisolm’s feet were ticklish. You would exploit that information at a later date, but for the time being, you chose to keep Sam as well as you could.  
Sam’s broken bones saw to it that the rest of his body was out of alignment. You kneaded his back, shoulders and limbs. If you hit a particularly tight bunch of muscle, Sam would make a thoughtful noise in order to disguise his discomfort. You continued just as strenuously, though. Sam wouldn’t have you stop for him, and if your positions had been reversed, you wouldn’t have had him stop for you.  
Afterward, Sam tilted his head from one side to the other, stretching his neck.  
“Much better,” he admitted.  
“Oh?”  
Your tone was more facetious than it might otherwise have been, but Sam looked more sheepish than he’d ever dared in your company.  
“Where you finished with the paper?” he asked.

Billy Rocks

You knocked on the door, then let yourself into the room.  
“I got more-” you stopped when you saw that Billy hadn’t moved from where you’d left him.  
“Hey,” you said as concern jolted you. You set the towels on the nearest stand and walked over to where Billy stood, still covered in dirt. “Billy, hey, what’s wrong?”  
Other than the fact you had a mineshaft dropped on you? You amended as you recalled the image of Vasquez, Goodnight and Jack dragging him out of the earth. It was pure luck that he was found alive.  
There was no reply, and his eyes were unblinking. Billy’s eyes could sometimes be distant, but they were so divorced from their usual keenness that your hand sought out his elbow.  
No reaction.  
“I’m going to get a doctor,” you told him as you watched his face. Though he didn’t seem too damaged beyond some cuts and scrapes, you’d been an advocate of him receiving medical attention.  
Billy’s eyes slid shut, then open. He moved his head from side to side so slowly that you could have convinced yourself he hadn’t done so at all.  
“Okay,” you said, though you were unconvinced. Nonetheless, you tilted your head toward the still-hot bath you’d drawn for him. “Let’s at least get you cleaned up.”  
Billy nodded.  
The movement was small, but it was enough to dislodge dirt.  
You untied his hair, and took a comb through it, careful not to pull too hard at any knots, or stubborn bits of earth. You stepped back in front of him, and brushed an errant lock from his face.  
In the lamplight you could see that his pupils were too big.  
Something was really wrong, and you knew it was very unlikely Billy would give voice to what ailed him. And if the problem wasn’t physical, maybe he didn’t even know.  
“Here,” you said as you undid the top button of the shirt that had lately been white. “Get you outta these.”  
You found several of the buttons missing as you opened the shirt the rest of the way. More dirt fell to the floor as you slid it down, over his shoulders and allowed it to fall to the floor. The bruise that bloomed up, past his waistband drew your attention. With gentle haste you undid his belt and slid his pants down, over his hips and to the floor.  
“Jesus, Billy,” you whispered when you saw the purple mark that nearly covered his left hip.  
He looked from the bruise, back to you. Painful as it must have been, something edged into his features that told you that wasn’t what was hurting him the most; and you could tell it was rooted in something far more complex than I’ve-had-worse bravado.  
“Alright,” you said as you gave him a once over to be certain the bruise was the most serious physical wound.  
You helped him shuffle to the side of the tub, and helped him get in. One leg, then the other. Sitting down was slow-going, too. There was nothing of his usual, fluid grace; he moved as though his knees were brittle. You began to tell him to sink down slowly, and you felt the knot in your stomach tighten when you realized you didn’t have to.  
When you poured water over him, it only served to embellish how bedraggled and weary he appeared.  
As you went about ridding him of what might have been the remnants of his grave, Billy remained silent. He was still, save for when you asked him to lean a certain way. There was a lag in his actions, but he was so utterly cooperative, otherwise, that it added to your unease.  
As you went deeper below the waterline, he gave no indication of hesitation, or embarrassment. While his gaze wasn’t as far off as it had been, you vowed to get a doctor if he didn’t return to himself by the next morning.  
When you were satisfied that you’d rid him of all the dirt, your unhurried guidance brought him out of the tub. As you towelled him dry, he grimaced if you took the cloth across parts of him that were especially sore. You didn’t think you’d ever been relieved to see an indication of pain on his features.  
You retrieved fresh underclothes for him. To your surprise, Billy reached out a hand to accept them. You made no effort to hide your relieved sigh, or your smile as you helped him on with the fresh garments as much as he needed. He made it to the bed under his own strength, and you joined him there. You held him closer than was your custom, and he rested his head against you.  
Billy was safe, clean, and warm. And there was nothing you would have traded for that.

Goodnight Robicheaux

“I must be a sorry sight,” Goodnight said.  
“You look just fine to me,” you told him in a tone that would brook no argument.  
While color was returning to his face, he was still too pale. Your words were absolutely honest, though. He was alive. He’d survived his surgery, and his feet were firmly on the path to healing. You would count your blessings and try to forget how you’d nearly worried yourself sick while a sawbones had taken a blade to Goodnight’s abdomen in hopes of fixing what afflicted him. Gunshot wounds, cuts, scrapes; those were easy enough to understand. Hell, they were expected. But those things that struck without warning, that were not so easily identified? You’d developed a particular distaste for them since beginning a relationship with Goodnight.  
“How are you feeling?”  
“Well, I lived through my vivisection,” Goodnight said as he turned his head in your direction. When he saw that you were looking for a more serious answer, he added with a sigh: “Singularly disgustin’.”  
You made a sound in your throat that indicated your sympathy, as you sat at the foot of his bed.  
“Would a bath help you feel less disgusting?”  
“Couldn’t hurt,” he said. “Or maybe it could. I don’ know.”  
He smiled like he did when he knew he was prattling, and pondering semantics a little too closely. You edged closer to him like you did when you encouraged him to continue. You knew if he didn’t, it would have left room for you to fill the quiet with all the ways you’d feared for him.  
“No need to trouble yourself, hon,” he said.  
“It’s no trouble, Goody,” you said as you knelt down and rested your hand on his bare shoulder as though to assure yourself he still boasted the warmth of the living.  
After you procured the necessities, you pulled Goodnight’s blanket from over him, but when you made to undo his pants he shifted.  
“Nothing I haven't seen before,” your brow furrowed itself, but your lips smiled.  
There was no gregarious bark of laughter; and while the wan smile he gave you was tired, it was also kind, and sweet. And so very Goodnight.  
“That’s true,” he said as he picked at the hem of his blanket, and quirked a brow so as to fondly concede your point. His eyes searched out an area of the wall behind you, though. “Just don’t like you seeing me like this, is all.”  
Goodnight could be fastidious about his appearance, but you needn’t have spent much time around him to understand that wasn’t what he meant. It wasn’t vanity. He didn’t want to look more vulnerable than he’d already revealed he could be. He didn’t want his body’s reliability to be as mercurial as his mind’s could be.  
“I know,” you said. You brushed your fingers over his shoulder. “But you’re gonna get better.”  
“I suppose it’s just one more scar. Suppose I’ll bounce back pretty quick compared to...” He trailed off for a moment with a small, rueful smile. “Well, compared to other slings and arrows.”  
Goodnight went on to list all the things he and you could do during his convalescence. By the time he stopped, it was difficult to ignore the way his words had come out a little too quickly. You understood. He needed to stay distracted; needed to keep his demons at bay.  
You wrung out a cloth and told him you’d noticed a store in town where you’d likely be able to find some books. That earned you a smile from Goodnight, and you pressed a kiss to your fingertips, then placed them on his cheek. You and Goodnight would read to each other when you had the opportunity. While his natural skill as a storyteller made him a delight to listen to, you’d found yourself enjoying your turns as narrator. You grew more and more animated, and theatrical with each new tale.  
As you commenced to clean him, he would lean into your touch when he could. Mindful of the doctor’s instruction to keep the bandages dry, you avoided them. While you were loath to treat Goodnight as though he were fragile, you kept your ministrations delicate, and your words soft. The lines of his body relaxed, and his eyelids grew heavy. He watched you with sleepy affection that made you think of all the happier times he’d looked at you in that same way. You’d never confessed it to Goodnight, but that look was more disarming than any amount of Southern charm and gentility he could muster.  
“Better?” you asked as you silently critiqued your work.  
“Very much.”  
“Good,” you said, pleased that there was something you could do to help. You drew his blanket back up to his chest. “I’m gonna let you get some rest now. Maybe go see about some books.”  
“You should get some rest, yourself,” he informed you.

Jack Horne

You weren’t entirely convinced that domesticity suited you, but that didn’t stop you from doing all of the things Jack -even in the depths of a fever -had expressly told you you did not need to worry about doing. You either assured him that you knew you didn’t have to, or pretended you didn’t hear him. Indeed, when you weren’t caring for Jack -another thing he told you you didn’t have to do -you tidied up around the cabin, cooked, saw to the feeding and watering of your horses, cut firewood. All the mundanity of settling down that might have scared you off now seemed...comfortable.  
Toward the close of day, you went into Jack's room. He stirred enough that you didn't need to regret rousing him and suggesting a change of bedclothes. As you worked, you recounted the work that had been, and your plans for the next day. Jack watched you with glassy eyes as you smoothed blankets and readjusted pillows. You felt a series of statements coming on about how all that was unnecessary, and he could do that. Rather than rebuke your industriousness, Jack gave you a quiet thank you. You assured him it was no trouble, and you asked him if he felt up to drinking some broth for dinner. He said he was, and you said you'd prepare some just as soon as he’d had a bath. Jack balked at this, and you thought that even if Jack’s face hadn’t sported the flush of a fever, he would be blushing.  
“A man gets used to caring for himself,” he mumbled, by way an explanation.  
“A man can get used to being cared for, too,” you said as you put a hand on his shoulder. He was still too warm, but not nearly as worryingly so as he had been. You’d watched as a sniffle (that Jack had assured you was definitely not a cold) progressed into something much worse. None of the remedies Jack tried did any good. It took a near-collapse to convince him to weather the storm in the safety and comfort of his cabin.  
When Jack formulated no argument about you washing him, you left the room and returned with water, soap, and towels. Jack gave you a weary smile, as he looked at you in a far-off way that made you wonder if he was comparing and contrasting you with his spouse. It wasn’t insecurity that caused you to wonder. You knew you weren’t Jack’s first love, but it was that much more endearing that he’d opened his heart to you.  
You were surprised when he didn’t prevent you from helping him out of his clothes. “Bashful” was a word you used towards Jack’s description only in private, and when you did, it redoubled Jack’s tendency toward hem-hawing and looking down, then back up at you with the shyness of someone just entering into a youthful courtship. Though his clothes were bound for the laundry, you folded them, and neatly set them aside.  
Jack was a big man. He was powerful, and capable of brutality. But he was also gentle. You did your best to imitate the care he would have taken with you, or anyone else he cared about. Jack’s eyes grew heavy as you washed his hair and beard. There was some part of you that found secret amusement in the juxtaposition of the famous image of Jack Horne and the man who sat in front of you. While you washed away the perspiration of illness, you hummed a tune that rose and fell in pitch, or ceased entirely, depending on the discretion different body parts required.  
You paused for coughing fits. Jack would cover his mouth with a kerchief, and you would rub his back until the disturbance subsided. He would invariably apologize, and you would tell him he didn’t have to.  
Once Jack was washed and dried, you found fresh clothing for him. He managed his way into them as you began to tidy the supplies you’d used. With effort, Jack stood and made to help. It only took your upraised eyebrows to redirect Jack to the bed.  
“You got enough blankets?” You asked once he was under blankets and furs.  
He paused, and for a moment you didn’t think he was going to answer you, or he would tell you that he would get it.. Jack Horne, you’d found, had a stubborn streak a mile across when it came to letting others take care of him.  
“May I have one more?” he asked.  
“Yeah,” you said before you turned on your heels, and went to get one.  
In the next room, you selected an especially plush wool blanket. By the time you returned, Jack had already nodded off. You draped the blanket over him, and silently wished him pleasant dreams before going to prepare a late meal.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to come geek-out with me on tumblr!


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